Vera said:

"I shall never eat tongue again."

They finished the meal. They sat round the kitchen table staring at each other.

Blore said:

"Only four of us now... Who'll be the next?"

Armstrong stared. He said, almost mechanically:

"We must be very careful -" and stopped.

Blore nodded.

"That's what he said... And now he's dead!"

Armstrong said:

"How did it happen, I wonder?"

Lombard swore. He said:

"A damned clever double cross! That stuff was planted in Miss Claythorne's room and it worked just as it was intended to. Every one dashes up there thinking she's being murdered. And so - in the confusion - some one - caught the old boy off his guard."

Blore said:

"Why didn't any one hear the shot?"

Lombard shook his head.

"Miss Claythorne was screaming, the wind was howling, we were running about and calling out. No, it wouldn't be heard." He paused. "But that trick's not going to work again. He'll have to try something else next time."

Blore said:

"He probably will."

There was an unpleasant tone in his voice. The two men eyed each other.

Armstrong said:

"Four of us, and we don't know which..."

Blore said:

"I know..."

Vera said:

"I haven't the least doubt..."

Armstrong said slowly:

"I suppose I do know really..."

Philip Lombard said:

"I think I've got a pretty good idea now..."

Again they all looked at each other...

Vera staggered to her feet. She said:

"I feel awful. I must go to bed... I'm dead beat."

Lombard said:

"Might as well. No good sitting watching each other."

Blore said:

"I've no objection..."

The doctor murmured:

"The best thing to do - although I doubt if any of us will sleep."

They moved to the door. Blore said:

"I wonder where that revolver is now?..."

II

They went up the stairs.

The next move was a little like a scene in a farce.

Each one of the four stood with a hand on his or her bedroom door handle. Then, as though at a signal, each one stepped into the room and pulled the door shut. There were sounds of bolts and locks, of the moving of furniture.

Four frightened people were barricaded in until morning.

III

Philip Lombard drew a breath of relief as he turned from adjusting a chair under the door handle.

He strolled across to the dressing-table.

By the light of the flickering candle he studied his face curiously.

He said softly to himself:

"Yes, this business has got you rattled all right."

His sudden wolf-like smile flashed out.

He undressed quickly.

He went over to the bed, placing his wrist-watch on the table by the bed.

Then he opened the drawer of the table.

He stood there, staring down at the revolver that was inside it...

IV

Vera Claythorne lay in bed.

The candle still burned beside her.

As yet she could not summon the courage to put it out.

She was afraid of the dark...

She told herself again and again: "You're all right until morning. Nothing happened last night. Nothing will happen tonight. Nothing can happen. You're locked and bolted in. No one can come near you..."

And she thought suddenly:

"Of course! I can stay here! Stay here locked in! Food doesn't really matter! I can stay here - safely - till help comes! Even if it's a day - or two days..."

Stay here. Yes, but could she stay here? Hour after hour - with no one to speak to, with nothing to do but think...

She'd begin to think of Cornwall - of Hugo - of - of what she'd said to Cyril.

Horrid whiny little boy, always pestering her...

"Miss Claythorne, why can't I swim out to the rock? I can. I know I can."

Was it her voice that had answered?

"Of course you can, Cyril, really. I know that."

"Can I go then, Miss Claythorne?"

"Well, you see, Cyril, your mother gets so nervous about you. I'll tell you what. Tomorrow you can swim out to the rock. I'll talk to your mother on the beach and distract her attention. And then, when she looks for you, there you'll be standing on the rock waving to her! It will be a surprise!"

"Oh, good egg, Miss Claythorne! That will be a lark!"

She'd said it now. Tomorrow! Hugo was going to Newquay. When he came back - it would be all over...

Yes, but supposing it wasn't? Supposing it went wrong? Cyril might be rescued in time. And then - then he'd say, "Miss Claythorne said I could... Well, what of it? One must take some risk! If the worst happened she'd brazen it out. "How can you tell such a wicked lie, Cyril? Of course I never said any such thing!" They'd believe her all right. Cyril often told stories. He was an untruthful child. Cyril would know, of course. But that didn't matter... And anyway nothing would go wrong. She'd pretend to swim out after him. But she'd arrive too late... Nobody would ever suspect...

Had Hugo suspected? Was that why he had looked at her in that queer far-off way...? Had Hugo known?

Was that why he had gone off after the inquest so hurriedly?

He hadn't answered the one letter she had written to him...

Hugo...

Vera turned restlessly in bed. No, no, she mustn't think of Hugo. It hurt too much! That was all over, over and done with... Hugo must be forgotten...

Why, this evening, had she suddenly felt that Hugo was in the room with her?

She stared up at the ceiling, stared at the big black hook in the middle of the room.

She'd never noticed that hook before.

The seaweed had hung from that...

She shivered as she remembered that cold clammy touch on her neck...

She didn't like that hook on the ceiling. It drew your eyes, fascinated you... a big black hook...

V

Ex-Inspector Blore sat on the side of his bed.

His small eyes, red-rimmed and bloodshot, were alert in the solid mass of his face. He was like a wild boar waiting to charge.

He felt no inclination to sleep.

The menace was coming very near now... Six out of ten!

For all his sagacity, for all his caution and astuteness, the old judge had gone the way of the rest.

Blore snorted with a kind of savage satisfaction.

"What was it the old geezer had said?"

"We must be very careful..."

Self-righteous smug old hypocrite. Sitting up in court feeling like God Almighty. He'd got his all right... No more being careful for him.

And now there were four of them. The girl, Lombard, Armstrong and himself.

Very soon another of them would go... But it wouldn't be William Henry Blore. He'd see to that all right.

(But the revolver... What about the revolver? That was the disturbing factor - the revolver!)

Blore sat on his bed, his brow furrowed, his little eyes creased and puckered while he pondered the problem of the revolver...

In the silence he could hear the clocks strike downstairs.

Midnight.

He relaxed a little now - even went so far as to lie down on his bed. But he did not undress.

He lay there, thinking. Going over the whole business from the beginning, methodically, painstakingly, as he had been wont to do in his police officer days. It was thoroughness that paid in the end.

The candle was burning down. Looking to see if the matches were within easy reach of his hand, he blew it out.

Strangely enough, he found the darkness disquieting. It was as though a thousand age-old fears awoke and struggled for supremacy in his brain. Faces floated in the air - the judge's face crowned with that mockery of grey wool - the cold dead face of Mrs. Rogers - the convulsed purple face of Anthony Marston...

Another face - pale, spectacled, with a small straw-coloured moustache...

A face he had seen sometime or other - but when? Not on the island. No, much longer ago than that.

Funny, that he couldn't put a name to it... Silly sort of face really - fellow looked a bit of a mug.

Of course!