‘Serves him damned well right!’ - that’s what I thought. Murder - and I’ve always been such a law-abiding man! But it didn’t seem like that at the time. “It’s not much good denying it now - not when we’re all going to die. General Macarthur nodded his head gently. That’s why I did it.” Vera said: “You mean -” and paused. She was so pretty - and so gay.” He was silent for a minute or two, then he said: I loved her - and I was very proud of her. I loved her very much.” Vera said questioningly: “Was Leslie your wife?” “Yes, my wife.

He said musingly: “You see, I loved Leslie. She felt suddenly afraid of this quiet old soldier. You’ll feel that too some day.” Vera said hoarsely: “I don’t understand you.” Her fingers worked spasmodically.

But it does come! The blessed relief when you know that you’ve done with it all - that you haven’t got to carry the burden any longer. What, perhaps, you can’t understand is the relief!” Vera said wonderingly: “The relief?” He said: “Yes. But I think you know that, don’t you? It’s true, isn’t it? We’re all waiting for the end.” She said unsteadily: “What do you mean?” General Macarthur said gravely: “None of us are going to leave the island. “What are you waiting for?” He said gently: “The end. She said: “Do you like sitting here looking out to sea?” He nodded his head gently. It’s almost as though he knew.” He said: “Ah! it’s you! You’ve come.” Vera sat down beside him. He stared intently at her for a minute or two. His head turned - there was a queer mixture of questioning and apprehension in his look. General Macarthur stirred at her approach. She walked along towards the extreme end of the island where an old man sat staring out to the horizon. After a while Vera strolled slowly down to the sea. And in imagination she saw the judge’s old hands put the black cap on his head and begin to pronounce sentence. When Vera looked at him, she saw a man standing in the dock - a young man with fair hair and blue eyes and a bewildered, frightened face. His head was poked down well into his neck. Justice Wargrave sat huddled in a porter’s chair. And Emily Brent, placid and righteous, sat knitting. A face that had once been pretty - impudently pretty perhaps - and which was now beyond the reach of pity or terror. Every time Vera thought of her she seemed to see a pale drowned face with seaweed entangled in the hair. Miss Brent herself had taken a chair just round the corner of the house so as to be out of the wind.

She had avoided Emily Brent with a kind of shuddering aversion. IV Vera had been restless all the morning.

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