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She’d begin to think of Cornwall—of Hugo—of—of what she’d said to Cyril.

Horrid whiny little boy, always pestering her…

‘Miss Claythorne, why can’t I swim out to the rock? I can. I know I can.’

Was it her voice that had answered?

‘Of course, you can, Cyril, really. I know that.’

‘Can I go then, Miss Claythorne?’

‘Well, you see, Cyril, your mother gets so nervous about you. I’ll tell you what. Tomorrow you can swim out to the rock. I’ll talk to your mother on the beach and distract her attention. And then, when she looks for you, there you’ll be standing on the rock waving to her! It will be a surprise!’

‘Oh, good egg, Miss Claythorne! That will be a lark!’

She’d said it now. Tomorrow! Hugo was going to Newquay. When he came back—it would be all over.

Yes, but supposing it wasn’t? Supposing it went wrong? Cyril might be rescued in time. And then—then he’d say, ‘Miss Claythorne said I could.’ Well, what of it? One must take some risk! If the worst happened she’d brazen it out. ‘How can you tell such a wicked lie, Cyril? Of course, I never said any such thing!’ They’d believe her all right. Cyril often told stories. He was an untruthful child. Cyril would know, of course. But that didn’t matter… and anyway nothing would go wrong. She’d pretend to swim out after him. But she’d arrive too late… Nobody would ever suspect…

Had Hugo suspected? Was that why he had looked at her in that queer far-off way?… Had Hugo known?

Was that why he had gone off after the inquest so hurriedly?

He hadn’t answered the one letter she had written to him…

Hugo…

Vera turned restlessly in bed. No, no, she mustn’t think of Hugo. It hurt too much! That was all over, over and done with… Hugo must be forgotten.

Why, this evening, had she suddenly felt that Hugo was in the room with her?

She stared up at the ceiling, stared at the big black hook in the middle of the room.

She’d never noticed that hook before.

The seaweed had hung from that.

She shivered as she remembered that cold clammy touch on her neck.

She didn’t like that hook on the ceiling. It drew your eyes, fascinated you… a big black hook…

V

Ex-Inspector Blore sat on the side of his bed.

His small eyes, red-rimmed and bloodshot, were alert in the solid mass of his face. He was like a wild boar waiting to charge.

He felt no inclination to sleep.

The menace was coming very near now… Six out of ten!

For all his sagacity, for all his caution and astuteness, the old judge had gone the way of the rest.

Blore snorted with a kind of savage satisfaction.

What was it the old geezer had said?

‘We must be very careful…’

Self-righteous smug old hypocrite. Sitting up in court feeling like God Almighty. He’d got his all right… No more being careful for him.

And now there were four of them. The girl, Lombard, Armstrong and himself.

Very soon another of them would go… But it wouldn’t be William Henry Blore. He’d see to that all right.

(But the revolver… What about the revolver? That was the disturbing factor—the revolver!)