She used his own gun against him, a method that was occasionally cleaner than slitting throats when she got it right. “It is your sister and her husband,” he said. Her family are solid West End people, Kensington people. 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 should never have noticed the miniature at all, if it hadn't been for him. The pistol was his own, it is true, but it was one which was taken from him when he forced his way in upon me before. "Pick up that blade, Nab," vociferated Wild, finding himself hotly pressed, "and stab him.
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