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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.

Everyone 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 someone 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 teapot 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! Bless 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:

‘Excuse me, sir, but does any one know what’s become of the bathroom curtain?’

Lombard’s head went up with a jerk.

‘The bathroom curtain? What the devil do you mean,

Rogers?’ ‘It’s gone, sir, clean vanished. I was going round drawing all the curtains and the one in the lav— bathroom wasn’t there any longer.’

Mr Justice Wargrave asked:

‘Was it there this morning?’

‘Oh yes, sir.’

Blore said:

‘What kind of a curtain was it?’

‘Scarlet oilsilk, sir. It went with the scarlet tiles.’

Lombard said:

‘And it’s gone?’

‘Gone, sir.’

They stared at each other.

Blore said heavily:

‘Well—after all—what of it? It’s mad—but so’s everything else. Anyway it doesn’t matter. You can’t kill anybody with an oilsilk curtain. Forget about it.’

Rogers said:

‘Yes, sir, thank you, sir.’

He went out shutting the door behind him.

Inside the room, the pall of fear had fallen anew.

Again, surreptitiously, they watched each other.

VI

Dinner came, was eaten, and cleared away. A simple meal, mostly out of tins.

Afterwards, in the living-room, the strain was almost too great to be borne.

At nine o’clock, Emily Brent rose to her feet.

She said:

‘I’m going to bed.’

Vera said:

‘I’ll go to bed too.’

The two women went up the stairs and Lombard and

Blore came with them. Standing at the top of the stairs, the two men watched the women go into their respective rooms and shut the doors. They heard the sound of two bolts being shot and the turning of two keys.