‘Oh, no, I don’t think so. Her own secretary was suddenly taken ill and she wired to an agency for a substitute and they sent me.’
‘So that was it. And suppose you don’t like the post when you’ve got there?’
Vera laughed again.
‘Oh, it’s only temporary—a holiday post. I’ve got a permanent job at a girls’ school. As a matter of fact, I’m frightfully thrilled at the prospect of seeing Soldier Island. There’s been such a lot about it in the papers. Is it really very fascinating?’
Lombard said:
‘I don’t know. I haven’t seen it.’
‘Oh, really? The Owens are frightfully keen on it, I suppose. What are they like? Do tell me.’
Lombard thought: Awkward, this—am I supposed to have met them or not? He said quickly:
‘There’s a wasp crawling up your arm. No—keep quite still.’ He made a convincing pounce. ‘There. It’s gone!’
‘Oh, thank you. There are a lot of wasps about this summer.’
‘Yes, I suppose it’s the heat. Who are we waiting for, do you know?’
‘I haven’t the least idea.’
The loud drawn-out scream of an approaching train was heard. Lombard said:
‘That will be the train now.’
It was a tall soldierly old man who appeared at the exit from the platform. His grey hair was clipped close and he had a neatly trimmed white moustache.
His porter, staggering slightly under the weight of the solid leather suitcase, indicated Vera and Lombard.
Vera came forward in a competent manner. She said:
‘I am Mrs Owen’s secretary. There is a car here waiting.’ She added, ‘This is Mr Lombard.’
The faded blue eyes, shrewd in spite of their age, sized up Lombard. For a moment a judgment showed in them—had there been any one to read it.
‘Good-looking fellow. Something just a little wrong about him…’
The three of them got into the waiting taxi. They drove through the sleepy streets of little Oakbridge and continued about a mile on the main Plymouth road. Then they plunged into a maze of cross-country lanes, steep, green and narrow.
General Macarthur said:
‘Don’t know this part of Devon at all. My little place is in East Devon—just on the border-line of Dorset.’
Vera said:
‘It really is lovely here. The hills and the red earth and everything so green and luscious looking.’
Philip Lombard said critically:
‘It’s a bit shut in… I like open country myself. Where you can see what’s coming…’
General Macarthur said to him:
‘You’ve seen a bit of the world, I fancy?’
Lombard shrugged his shoulders disparagingly.
‘I’ve knocked about here and there, sir.’
He thought to himself: ‘He’ll ask me now if I was old enough to be in the War. These old boys always do.’
But General Macarthur did not mention the War.
II
They came up over a steep hill and down a zigzag track to Sticklehaven—a mere cluster of cottages with a fishing boat or two drawn up on the beach.
Illuminated by the setting sun, they had their first glimpse of Soldier Island jutting up out of the sea to the south.
Vera said, surprised:
‘It’s a long way out.’
She had pictured it differently, close to shore, crowned with a beautiful white house. But there was no house visible, only the boldly silhouetted rock with its faint resemblance to a giant head. There was something sinister about it. She shivered faintly.
Outside a little inn, the Seven Stars, three people were sitting. There was the hunched elderly figure of the judge, the upright form of Miss Brent, and a third man—a big bluff man who came forward and introduced himself.
‘Thought we might as well wait for you,’ he said. ‘Make one trip of it. Allow me to introduce myself. Name’s Davis. Natal, South Africa’s my natal spot, ha, ha!’
He laughed breezily.
Mr Justice Wargrave looked at him with active malevolence. He seemed to be wishing that he could order the court to be cleared. Miss Emily Brent was clearly not sure if she liked Colonials.
‘Any one care for a little nip before we embark?’ asked Mr Davis hospitably.
Nobody assenting to this proposition, Mr Davis turned and held up a finger.
‘Mustn’t delay, then. Our good host and hostess will be expecting us,’ he said.
He might have noticed that a curious constraint came over the other members of the party. It was as though the mention of their host and hostess had a curiously paralysing effect upon the guests.
In response to Davis’s beckoning finger, a man detached himself from a nearby wall against which he was leaning and came up to them. His rolling gait proclaimed him as a man of the sea. He had a weather-beaten face and dark eyes with a slightly evasive expression. He spoke in his soft Devon voice.
‘Will you be ready to be starting for the island, ladies and gentlemen? The boat’s waiting. There’s two gentlemen coming by car but Mr Owen’s orders was not to wait for them as they might arrive at any time.’
The party got up. Their guide led them along a small stone jetty. Alongside it a motor boat was lying.
Emily Brent said:
‘That’s a very small boat.’
The boat’s owner said persuasively:
‘She’s a fine boat that, Ma’am. You could go to Plymouth in her as easy as winking.’
Mr Justice Wargrave said sharply:
‘There are a good many of us.’
‘She’d take double the number, sir.’
Philip Lombard said in his pleasant easy voice:
‘It’s quite all right. Glorious weather—no swell.’
Rather doubtfully, Miss Brent permitted herself to be helped into the boat. The others followed suit. There was as yet no fraternizing among the party. It was as though each member of it was puzzled by the other members.
They were just about to cast loose when their guide paused, boat-hook in hand.
Down the steep track into the village a car was coming. A car so fantastically powerful, so superlatively beautiful that it had all the nature of an apparition. At the wheel sat a young man, his hair blown back by the wind. In the blaze of the evening light he looked, not a man, but a young God, a Hero God out of some Northern Saga.
He touched the horn and a great roar of sound echoed from the rocks of the bay.
It was a fantastic moment. In it, Anthony Marston seemed to be something more than mortal. Afterwards more than one of those present remembered that moment.
III
Fred Narracott sat by the engine thinking to himself that this was a queer lot. Not at all his idea of what Mr Owen’s guests were likely to be. He’d expected something altogether more classy. Togged up women and gentlemen in yachting costume and all very rich and important-looking.
Not at all like Mr Elmer Robson’s