He was smiling to himself. A week - eh?
He was going to enjoy that week.
XIII In her bedroom, Emily Brent, dressed in black silk ready for dinner, was reading her Bible.
Her lips moved as she followed the words:
"The heathen are sunk down in the pit that they made: in the net which they hid is their own foot taken.
The Lord is known by the judgement which he executeth: the wicked is snared in the work of his own hands.
The wicked shall be turned into hell."
Her tight lips closed.
She shut the Bible.
Rising, she pinned a cairngorm brooch at her neck, and went down to dinner.
Chapter 3
Dinner was drawing to a close.
The food had been good, the wine perfect.
Rogers waited well.
Every one was in better spirits.
They had begun to talk to each other with more freedom and intimacy. Mr. Justice Wargrave, mellowed by the excellent port, was being amusing in a caustic fashion; Dr. Armstrong and Tony Marston were listening to him.
Miss Brent chatted to General Macarthur; they had discovered some mutual friends.
Vera Claythorne was asking Mr. Davis intelligent questions about South Africa.
Mr. Davis was quite fluent on the subject.
Lombard listened to the conversation.
Once or twice he looked up quickly, and his eyes narrowed.
Now and then his eyes played round the table, studying the others.
Anthony Marston said suddenly: "Quaint, these things, aren't they?"
In the centre of the round table, on a circular glass stand, were some little china figures.
"Indians." said Tony. "Indian Island. I suppose that's the idea."
Vera leaned forward.
"I wonder. How many are there?
Ten?"
"Yes - ten there are."
Vera cried: "What fun!
They're the ten little Indian boys of the nursery rhyme, I suppose.
In my bedroom the rhyme is framed and hung up over the mantelpiece."
Lombard said:
"In my room, too."
"And mine."
"And mine." Everybody joined the chorus.
Vera said: "It's an amusing idea, isn't it?"
Mr. Justice Wargrave grunted: "Remarkably childish," and helped himself to port.
Emily Brent looked at Vera Claythorne. Vera Claythorne looked at Miss Brent. The two women rose.
In the drawing-room, the French windows were open onto the terrace and the sound of the sea murmuring against the rocks came up to them.
Emily Brent said: "Pleasant sound."
Vera said sharply: "I hate it."
Miss Brent's eyes looked at her in surprise.
Vera flushed. She said, more composedly:
"I don't think this place would be very agreeable in a storm."
Emily Brent agreed.
"I've no doubt the house is shut up in winter," she said.
"You'd never get servants to stay here for one thing."
Vera murmured:
"It must be difficult to get servants anyway."