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The judge said sharply:

‘It was in his glass?’

‘Yes.’

The doctor strode to the table where the drinks were. He removed the stopper from the whisky and smelt and tasted it. Then he tasted the soda water. He shook his head.

‘They’re both all right.’

Lombard said:

‘You mean—he must have put the stuff in his glass himself?’

Armstrong nodded with a curiously dissatisfied expression. He said:

‘Seems like it.’

Blore said:

‘Suicide, eh? That’s a queer go.’

Vera said slowly:

‘You’d never think that he would kill himself. He was so alive. He was—oh—enjoying himself! When he came down the hill in his car this evening he looked—he looked—oh I can’t explain!’

But they knew what she meant. Anthony Marston, in the height of his youth and manhood, had seemed like a being who was immortal. And now, crumpled and broken, he lay on the floor.

Dr Armstrong said:

‘Is there any possibility other than suicide?’

Slowly every one shook their heads. There could be no other explanation. The drinks themselves were untampered with. They had all seen Anthony Marston go across and help himself. It followed therefore that any cyanide in the drink must have been put there by Anthony Marston himself.

And yet—why should Anthony Marston commit suicide?

Blore said thoughtfully:

‘You know, doctor, it doesn’t seem right to me. I shouldn’t have said Mr Marston was a suicidal type of gentleman.’

Armstrong answered:

‘I agree.’

II

They had left it like that. What else was there to say?

Together Armstrong and Lombard had carried the inert body of Anthony Marston to his bedroom and had laid him there covered over with a sheet.

When they came downstairs again, the others were standing in a group, shivering a little, though the night was not cold.

Emily Brent said:

‘We’d better go to bed. It’s late.’

It was past twelve o’clock. The suggestion was a wise one— yet every one hesitated. It was as though they clung to each other’s company for reassurance.

The judge said:

‘Yes, we must get some sleep.’

Rogers said:

‘I haven’t cleared yet—in the dining-room.’

Lombard said curtly: ‘Do it in the morning.’

Armstrong said to him:

‘Is your wife all right?’

‘I’ll go and see, sir.’

He returned a minute or two later.

‘Sleeping beautiful, she is.’

‘Good,’ said the doctor. ‘Don’t disturb her.’

‘No, sir. I’ll just put things straight in the dining-room and make sure everything’s locked up right, and then I’ll turn in.’

He went across the hall into the dining-room.

The others went upstairs, a slow unwilling procession.

If this had been an old house, with creaking wood, and dark shadows, and heavily panelled walls, there might have been an eerie feeling. But this house was the essence of modernity. There were no dark corners—no possible sliding panels—it was flooded with electric light—everything was new and bright and shining. There was nothing hidden in this house, nothing concealed. It had no atmosphere about it.

Somehow, that was the most frightening thing of all…

They exchanged good-nights on the upper landing. Each of them went into his or her own room, and each of them automatically, almost without conscious thought, locked the door…