He allowed his irons and clothes to be taken off without resistance. Certainly, we—that is Jarvis and I— knew nothing of it until after Mary’s death. With this person—who was no other than Mr. No means were neglected to accomplish this end. 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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