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Dr. Armstrong dropped his head in his hands and groaned.
He said:
"And in the meantime we may all be murdered in our beds?"
"I hope not," said Mr. Justice Wargrave. "I intend to take every possible precaution against such a thing happening."
It flashed across Dr. Armstrong's mind that an old man like the judge, was far more tenacious of life than a younger man would be. He had often marvelled at that fact in his professional career. Here was he, junior to the judge by perhaps twenty years, and yet with a vastly inferior sense of self-preservation.
Mr. Justice Wargrave was thinking:
"Murdered in our beds! These doctors are all the same - they think in clichйs. A thoroughly commonplace mind."
The doctor said:
"There have been three victims already, remember."
"Certainly. But you must remember that they were unprepared for the attack. We are forewarned."
Dr. Armstrong said bitterly:
"What can we do? Sooner or later -"
"I think," said Mr. Justice Wargrave, "that there are several things we can do."
Armstrong said:
"We've no idea, even, who it can be -"
The judge stroked his chin and murmured:
"Oh, you know, I wouldn't quite say that."
Armstrong stared at him.
"Do you mean you know?"
Mr. Justice Wargrave said cautiously:
"As regards actual evidence, such as is necessary in court, I admit that I have none. But it appears to me, reviewing the whole business, that one particular person is sufficiently clearly indicated. Yes, I think so."
Armstrong stared at him.
He said:
"I don't understand."
IV
Miss Brent was upstairs in her bedroom.
She took up her Bible and went to sit by the window.
She opened it. Then, after a minute's hesitation, she set it aside and went over to the dressing-table. From a drawer in it she took out a small black-covered notebook.
She opened it and began writing.
"A terrible thing has happened. General Macarthur is dead. (His cousin married Elsie MacPherson.) There is no doubt but that he was murdered. After luncheon the judge made us a most interesting speech. He is convinced that the murderer is one of us. That means that one of us is possessed by a devil. I had already suspected that. Which of us is it? They are all asking themselves that. I alone know..."
She sat for some time without moving. Her eyes grew vague and filmy. The pencil straggled drunkenly in her fingers. In shaking loose capitals she wrote:
THE MURDERER'S NAME IS BEATRICE TAYLOR...
Her eyes closed.
Suddenly, with a start, she awoke. She looked down at the notebook. With an angry exclamation she scored through the vague unevenly scrawled characters of the last sentence.
She said in a low voice:
"Did I write that? Did I? I must be going mad..."
V
The storm increased. The wind howled against the side of the house.
Every one was in the living-room. They sat listlessly huddled together. And, surreptitiously, they watched each other.
When Rogers brought in the tea-tray, they all jumped.
He said:
"Shall I draw the curtains? It would make it more cheerful like."
Receiving an assent to this, the curtains were drawn and the lamps turned on. The room grew more cheerful. A little of the shadow lifted. Surely, by tomorrow, the storm would be over and some one would come - a boat would arrive...Vera Claythorne said:
"Will you pour out tea, Miss Brent?"
The elder woman replied:
"No, you do it, dear. That tea-pot is so heavy. And I have lost two skeins of my grey knitting-wool. So annoying."
Vera moved to the tea-table. There was a cheerful rattle and clink of china. Normality returned.
Tea! Blessed ordinary everyday afternoon tea! Philip Lombard made a cheery remark. Blore responded. Dr. Armstrong told a humorous story. Mr. Justice Wargrave, who ordinarily hated tea, sipped approvingly.
Into this relaxed atmosphere came Rogers.
And Rogers was upset. He said nervously and at random:
