IV Vera Claythorne lay in bed.
The candle still burned beside her. As 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 matter!
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 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.