The stranger looked at him as if strongly disposed to chastise his impertinence. "You read it, Ruth. Annabel passed on with a strained nod to her sister, and Sir John’s bow was a miracle of icy displeasure. Give me my pistol and my dagger. Sulphurous poisons assaulted her nostrils as she threw the stone to one side of its resting place. As he crossed this chamber, his foot struck against something on the floor, which nearly threw him down, and stooping to examine the object, he found it was a key. He is Jacques. Hetty, who had periods of lucid expression, put the thing for her from her pillow. Was there anything at all in those locked rooms of her aunt’s mind? Were they fully furnished and only a little dusty and cobwebby and in need of an airing, or were they stark vacancy except, perhaps, for a cockroach or so or the gnawing of a rat? What was the mental equivalent of a rat’s gnawing? The image was going astray. I’m glad I did. We are alone, Sir Rowland," he added, snuffing the candles, glancing cautiously around, and lowering his tone, "and what you confide to me shall never transpire,—at least to your disadvantage.
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