The old lady left nothing of value, so it seemed, her flat had been rifled, her bits of thin dark-stained wooden furniture broken, and her small black guinea pig left to dart about making its high-pitched squealings.

It was only later that her neighbour Miss Prism, worried about Beauregard, went to fetch him, picked him up from the nest he was worry-chewing into the bed, held his ear to her heartbeat to calm him and saw the money spiraling out of the mattress on to the floor.

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