“You’re not interested in politics?” he asked, almost with a note of protest. "I suppose he'll be on his feet any day now. ‘Espèce de bête,’ she snarled. He knocked at the door. A woman’s shoe lay on the threadbare carpeting. Now the doctor had the "feel" that somewhere ahead lay danger. Wood's dwelling,—a plain, substantial, commodious farm-house. 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.
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