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‘No!’

The word burst from her lips like an exploding shell.

It took every one aback. Dr Armstrong flushed a deep red.

There was no mistaking the fear and suspicion in her face. He said stiffly:

‘Just as you please, Miss Brent.’

She said:

‘I don’t wish to take anything—anything at all. I will just sit here quietly till the giddiness passes off.’

They finished clearing away the breakfast things.

Blore said:

‘I’m a domestic sort of man. I’ll give you a hand, Miss Claythorne.’

Vera said: ‘Thank you.’

Emily Brent was left alone sitting in the dining-room.

For a while she heard a faint murmur of voices from the pantry.

The giddiness was passing. She felt drowsy now, as though she could easily go to sleep.

There was a buzzing in her ears—or was it a real buzzing in the room?

She thought:

‘It’s like a bee—a bumble bee.’

Presently she saw the bee. It was crawling up the window-pane.

Vera Claythorne had talked about bees this morning.

Bees and honey…

She liked honey. Honey in the comb, and strain it yourself through a muslin bag. Drip, drip, drip…

There was somebody in the room… somebody all wet and dripping… Beatrice Taylor come from the river…

She had only to turn her head and she would see her.

But she couldn’t turn her head.

If she were to call out…

But she couldn’t call out…

There was no one else in the house. She was all alone…

She heard footsteps—soft dragging footsteps coming up behind her. The stumbling footsteps of the drowned girl…

There was a wet dank smell in her nostrils…

On the window-pane the bee was buzzing—buzzing… And then she felt the prick.

The bee sting on the side of her neck…

II

In the drawing-room they were waiting for Emily Brent.

Vera Claythorne said:

‘Shall I go and fetch her?’

Blore said quickly:

‘Just a minute.’

Vera sat down again. Every one looked inquiringly at Blore. He said:

‘Look here, everybody, my opinion’s this: we needn’t look farther for the author of these deaths than the dining-room at this minute. I’d take my oath that woman’s the one we’re after!’

Armstrong said:

‘And the motive?’

‘Religious mania. What do you say, doctor?’

Armstrong said:

‘It’s perfectly possible. I’ve nothing to say against it. But of course we’ve no proof.’

Vera said:

‘She was very odd in the kitchen when we were getting breakfast. Her eyes—’ She shivered.

Lombard said:

‘You can’t judge her by that. We’re all a bit off our heads by now!’

Blore said:

‘There’s another thing. She’s the only one who wouldn’t give an explanation after that gramophone record. Why? Because she hadn’t any to give.’

Vera stirred in her chair. She said:

‘That’s not quite true. She told me—afterwards.’ Wargrave said:

‘What did she tell you, Miss Claythorne?’

Vera repeated the story of Beatrice Taylor.

Mr Justice Wargrave observed:

‘A perfectly straightforward story. I personally should have no difficulty in accepting it. Tell me, Miss Claythorne, did she appear to be troubled by a sense of guilt or a feeling of remorse for her attitude in the matter?’

‘None whatever,’ said Vera. ‘She was completely unmoved.’

Blore said: