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"How do I know? Practical joke, perhaps. We're to be marooned here, no attention is to be paid to signals, etc. Possibly the village has been told there's a wager on. Some damn fool story anyway."
Blore said dubiously:
"Think they'd swallow that?"
Lombard said drily:
"It's easier of belief than the truth! If the village were told that the island was to be isolated until Mr. Unknown Owen had quietly murdered all his guests - do you think they'd believe that?"
Dr. Armstrong said:
"There are moments when I can't believe it myself. And yet -"
Philip Lombard, his lips curling back from his teeth, said:
"And yet - that's just it! You've said it, doctor!"
Blore was gazing down into the water.
He said:
"Nobody could have clambered down here, I suppose?"
Armstrong shook his head.
"I doubt it. It's pretty sheer. And where could he hide?"
Blore said:
"There might be a hole in the cliff. If we had a boat now, we could row round the island."
Lombard said:
"If we had a boat, we'd all be halfway to the mainland by now!"
"True enough, sir."
Lombard said suddenly:
"We can make sure of this cliff. There's only one place where there could be a recess - just a little to the right below here. If you fellows can get hold of a rope, you can let me down to make sure."
Blore said:
"Might as well be sure. Though it seems absurd - on the face of it! I'll see if I can get hold of something."
He started off briskly down to the house.
Lombard stared up at the sky. The clouds were beginning to mass themselves together. The wind was increasing.
He shot a sideways look at Armstrong. He said:
"You're very silent, doctor. What are you thinking?"
Armstrong said slowly:
"I was wondering exactly how mad old Macarthur was..."
IV
Vera had been restless all the morning. She had avoided Emily Brent with a kind of shuddering aversion.
Miss Brent herself had taken a chair just round the corner of the house so as to be out of the wind. She sat there knitting.
Every time Vera thought of her she seemed to see a pale drowned face with seaweed entangled in the hair... A face that had once been pretty - impudently pretty perhaps - and which was now beyond the reach of pity or terror.
And Emily Brent, placid and righteous, sat knitting.
On the main terrace, Mr. Justice Wargrave sat huddled in a porter's chair. His head was poked down well into his neck.
When Vera looked at him, she saw a man standing in the dock - a young man with fair hair and blue eyes and a bewildered, frightened face. Edward Seton. And in imagination she saw the judge's old hands put the black cap on his head and begin to pronounce sentence...
After a while Vera strolled slowly down to the sea. She walked along towards the extreme end of the island where an old man sat staring out to the horizon.
General Macarthur stirred at her approach. His head turned - there was a queer mixture of questioning and apprehension in his look. It startled her. He stared intently at her for a minute or two.
She thought to herself:
"How queer. It's almost as though he knew..."
He said:
"Ah! it's you! You've come..."
Vera sat down beside him. She said:
"Do you like sitting here looking out to sea?"
He nodded his head gently.
"Yes," he said. "It's pleasant. It's a good place, I think, to wait."
"To wait?" said Vera sharply. "What are you waiting for?"
He said gently:
"The end. But I think you know that, don't you? It's true, isn't it? We're all waiting for the end."
She said unsteadily:
