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It made life lonely, though. He’d taken to shunning his old Army friends.

(If Armitage had talked, they’d know about it.)

And now—this evening—a hidden voice had blared out that old hidden story.

Had he dealt with it all right? Kept a stiff upper lip? Betrayed the right amount of feeling—indignation, disgust— but no guilt, no discomfiture? Difficult to tell.

Surely nobody could have taken the accusation seriously. There had been a pack of other nonsense, just as far-fetched. That charming girl—the voice had accused her of drowning a child! Idiotic! Some madman throwing crazy accusations about!

Emily Brent, too—actually a niece of old Tom Brent of the Regiment. It had accused her of murder! Any one could see with half an eye that the woman was as pious as could be—the kind that was hand and glove with parsons.

Damned curious business the whole thing! Crazy, nothing less.

Ever since they had got here—when was that? Why, damn it, it was only this afternoon! Seemed a good bit longer than that.

He thought: ‘I wonder when we shall get away again.’

Tomorrow, of course, when the motor-boat came from the mainland.

Funny, just this minute he didn’t want much to get away from the island… To go back to the mainland, back to his little house, back to all the troubles and worries. Through the open window he could hear the waves breaking on the rocks—a little louder now than earlier in the evening. Wind was getting up, too.

He thought: Peaceful sound. Peaceful place…

He thought: Best of an island is once you get there—you can’t go any farther… you’ve come to the end of things…

He knew, suddenly, that he didn’t want to leave the island.

VI

Vera Claythorne lay in bed, wide awake, staring up at the ceiling.

The light beside her was on. She was frightened of the dark.

She was thinking:

‘Hugo… Hugo… Why do I feel you’re so near to me tonight?.. Somewhere quite close…

‘Where is he really? I don’t know. I never shall know. He just went away—right away—out of my life.’

It was no good trying not to think of Hugo. He was close to her. She had to think of him—to remember…

Cornwall…

The black rocks, the smooth yellow sand. Mrs Hamilton, stout, good-humoured. Cyril, whining a little always, pulling at her hand.

‘I want to swim out to the rock, Miss Claythorne. Why can’t I swim out to the rock?’

Looking up—meeting Hugo’s eyes watching her.

The evenings after Cyril was in bed…

‘Come out for a stroll, Miss Claythorne.’

‘I think perhaps I will.’

The decorous stroll down to the beach. The moonlight—the soft Atlantic air.

And then, Hugo’s arms round her.

‘I love you. I love you. You know I love you, Vera?’

Yes, she knew.

(Or thought she knew.)

‘I can’t ask you to marry me. I’ve not got a penny. It’s all I can do to keep myself. Queer, you know, once, for three months I had the chance of being a rich man to look forward to. Cyril wasn’t born until three months after Maurice died. If he’d been a girl…’

If the child had been a girl, Hugo would have come into everything. He’d been disappointed, he admitted.