He returned the locket without comment. Let’s go up to my room. They went into Michelle's tiny bedroom, bare except for a dresser, a closet, and a miniscule single bed that resembled her own at the Becks. The lighting-up pierced the obscurity of the box, and Ramage stopped his urgent flow of words abruptly and sat back. The ink, contained in a grimy bottle unearthed in the outhouse, was old, and made blotches as soon as it touched the paper. “It is very doubtful,” he said. If Winifred remained silent, her looks would have disarmed a person of less assurance than the woollen-draper.
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