From under his pillow he dragged forth the key to the trunk. The person, shortly afterwards ushered into the room, seemed by the imperfect light,—for the evening was advancing, and the chamber darkened by heavy drapery,—to be a middle-sized middle-aged man, of rather vulgar appearance, but with a very shrewd aspect. She sat on the edge of her bed and looked about her, at her room, at the row of black-covered books and the pig’s skull. When he came to a certain sentence in Brendon’s letter he stopped short and looked up at her. “Have you not heard?” she said.
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