("No!" interpolated Auntie, with a solemnly emphatic shake of the head.)
A window broken in the kitchen, and a wide-open sash had showed the exploring Gussie the means of ingress. In the dining-room it was evident that a couple of glasses of brandy had been drunk, but none of the silver on the sideboard had been touched. Too clearly, Auntie and her possessions had been the objects of the attempt.
Auntie nodded gloomy affirmation, trembling and gasping in her chair. Where was Gussie, she asked; and showed relief and satisfaction when told he had gone to give notice of the affair to the police. But not even the promise that the servants and Grace would sit beside her and watch her while she slept would induce the poor lady to go to bed again.
"Not in this house. Never again in this house," she protested.
And even when morning brought a cessation of panic and a certain sense of security to all, she could not be persuaded to change her mind.
"I should die if I ever trusted myself to fall asleep under this roof again," she said. "Let me get away from it as soon as possible. I am fifty years of age, but I've never had a bad shock before in my life. I won't risk a second."
The swarthy, fat, foolish face was pale and flabby and aged from the night's adventure and the sleepless hours following.
"Auntie, I am sure you are not well enough to travel," Grace said. But, with a grim determination, Auntie persisted.
"The first train. I should like to get away by the very first."
"It isn't our fault, remember," Grace said, firing up. "It isn't as if we arranged a burglary for you, Auntie."