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III
Philip Lombard drew a breath of relief as he turned from adjusting a chair
under the door handle.
He strolled across to the dressing-table.
By the light of the flickering candle he studied his face curiously.
He said softly to himself:
‘Yes, this business has got you rattled all right.’
His sudden wolf-like smile flashed out.
He undressed quickly.
He went over to the bed, placing his wristwatch on the table by the bed.
Then he opened the drawer of the table.
He stood there, staring down at the revolver that was inside it…
IV
Vera Claythorne lay in bed.
The candle still burned beside her.
And yet she could not summon the courage to put it out.
She was afraid of the dark…
She told herself again and again: ‘You’re all right until morning. Nothing
happened last night. Nothing will happen tonight. Nothing can happen.
You’re locked and bolted in. No one can come near you…’
And she thought suddenly:
‘Of course! I can stay here! Stay here locked in! Food doesn’t really mat-
ter! I can stay here—safely—till help comes! Even if it’s a day—or two
days…’
Stay here. Yes, but could she stay here? Hour after hour—with no one to
speak to, with nothing to do but think…
She’d begin to think of Cornwall—of Hugo—of—of what she’d said to
Cyril.
Horrid whiney 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 mat-
ter…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…
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