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‘Quite sure, sir.’ Wargrave said:

‘I am not yet clear as to the purpose of our Unknown host in getting us to assemble here. But in my opinion this person, whoever he may be, is not sane in the accepted sense of the word.

‘He may be dangerous. In my opinion it would be well for us to leave this place as soon as possible. I suggest that we leave tonight.’

Rogers said:

‘I beg your pardon, sir, but there’s no boat on the island.’

‘No boat at all?’

‘No, sir.’

‘How do you communicate with the mainland?’

‘Fred Narracott, he comes over every morning, sir. He brings the bread and the milk and the post, and takes the orders.’

Mr Justice Wargrave said:

‘Then in my opinion it would be well if we all left tomorrow morning as soon as Narracott’s boat arrives.’

There was a chorus of agreement with only one dissentient voice. It was Anthony Marston who disagreed with the majority.

‘A bit unsporting, what?’ he said. ‘Ought to ferret out the mystery before we go. Whole thing’s like a detective story. Positively thrilling.’

The judge said acidly:

‘At my time of life, I have no desire for “thrills” as you call them.’

Anthony said with a grin:

‘The legal life’s narrowing! I’m all for crime! Here’s to it.’

He picked up his drink and drank it off at a gulp.

Too quickly, perhaps. He choked—choked badly. His face contorted, turned purple. He gasped for breath—then slid down off his chair, the glass falling from his hand.

Chapter 5

I

It was so sudden and so unexpected that it took every one’s breath away. They remained stupidly staring at the crumpled figure on the ground.

Then Dr Armstrong jumped up and went over to him, kneeling beside him. When he raised his head his eyes were bewildered.

He said in a low awe-struck whisper:

‘My God! He’s dead.’

They didn’t take it in. Not at once.

Dead? Dead? That young Norse God in the prime of his health and strength. Struck down all in a moment. Healthy young men didn’t die like that, choking over a whisky and soda…

No, they couldn’t take it in.

Dr Armstrong was peering into the dead man’s face. He sniffed at the blue twisted lips. Then he picked up the glass from which Anthony Marston had been drinking.

General Macarthur said:

‘Dead? D’you mean the fellow just choked and—and died?’

The physician said:

‘You can call it choking if you like. He died of asphyxiation right enough.’

He was sniffing now at the glass. He dipped a finger into the dregs and very cautiously just touched the finger with the tip of his tongue.

His expression altered.

General Macarthur said:

‘Never knew a man could die like that—just of a choking fit!’

Emily Brent said in a clear voice:

‘In the midst of life we are in death.’

Dr Armstrong stood up. He said brusquely:

‘No, a man doesn’t die of a mere choking fit. Marston’s death wasn’t what we call a natural death.’

Vera said almost in a whisper:

‘Was there—something—in the whisky?’

Armstrong nodded.

‘Yes. Can’t say exactly. Everything points to one of the cyanides. No distinctive smell of Prussic Acid, probably

Potassium Cyanide. It acts pretty well instantaneously.’