And Then There Were None by Agatha Christie Page B

no, he didn’t. Just shut up like a clam. I could take it or leave it—those were his words. I was hard up. I took it.”
    Blore looked unconvinced. He said:
    “Why didn’t you tell us all this last night?”
    “My dear man—” Lombard shrugged eloquent shoulders. “How was I to know that last night wasn’t exactly the eventuality I was here to cope with? I lay low and told a noncommittal story.”
    Dr. Armstrong said shrewdly:
    “But now—you think differently?”
    Lombard’s face changed. It darkened and hardened. He said:
    “Yes. I believe now that I’m in the same boat as the rest of you. That hundred guineas was just Mr. Owen’s little bit of cheese to get me into the trap along with the rest of you.”
    He said slowly:
    “ For we are in a trap —I’ll take my oath on that! Mrs. Rogers’ death! Tony Marston’s! The disappearing soldier boys on the dinner table! Oh yes, Mr. Owen’s hand is plainly seen— but where the devil is Mr. Owen himself? ”
    Downstairs the gong pealed a solemn call to lunch.
    II
    Rogers was standing by the dining room door. As the three men descended the stairs he moved a step or two forward. He said in a low anxious voice:
    “I hope lunch will be satisfactory. There is cold ham and cold tongue, and I’ve boiled some potatoes. And there’s cheese and biscuits, and some tinned fruits.”
    Lombard said:
    “Sounds all right. Stores are holding out, then?”
    “There is plenty of food, sir—of a tinned variety. The larder is very well stocked. A necessity, that, I should say, sir, on an island where one may be cut off from the mainland for a considerable period.”
    Lombard nodded.
    Rogers murmured as he followed the three men into the dining room:
    “It worries me that Fred Narracott hasn’t been over today. It’s peculiarly unfortunate, as you might say.”
    “Yes,” said Lombard, “peculiarly unfortunate describes it very well.”
    Miss Brent came into the room. She had just dropped a ball of wool and was carefully rewinding the end of it.
    As she took her seat at table she remarked:
    “The weather is changing. The wind is quite strong and there are white horses on the sea.”
    Mr. Justice Wargrave came in. He walked with a slow measured tread. He darted quick looks from under his bushy eyebrows at the other occupants of the dining room. He said:
    “You have had an active morning.”
    There was a faint malicious pleasure in his voice.
    Vera Claythorne hurried in. She was a little out of breath.
    She said quickly:
    “I hope you didn’t wait for me. Am I late?”
    Emily Brent said:
    “You’re not the last. The General isn’t here yet.”
    They sat round the table.
    Rogers addressed Miss Brent.
    “Will you begin, Madam, or will you wait?”
    Vera said:
    “General Macarthur is sitting right down by the sea. I don’t expect he would hear the gong there anyway”—she hesitated—“he’s a little vague today, I think.”
    Rogers said quickly:
    “I will go down and inform him luncheon is ready.”
    Dr. Armstrong jumped up.
    “I’ll go,” he said. “You others start lunch.”
    He left the room. Behind him he heard Rogers’ voice.
    “Will you take cold tongue or cold ham, Madam?”
    III
    The five people sitting round the table seemed to find conversation difficult. Outside, sudden gusts of wind came up and died away.
    Vera shivered a little and said:
    “There is a storm coming.”
    Blore made a contribution to the discourse. He said conversationally:
    “There was an old fellow in the train from Plymouth yesterday. He kept saying a storm was coming. Wonderful how they know weather, these old salts.”
    Rogers went round the table collecting the meat plates.
    Suddenly, with the plates held in his hands, he stopped.
    He said in an odd scared voice:
    “There’s somebody running….”
    They could all hear it—running feet along the terrace.
    In that minute, they knew—knew without being told….
    As by common accord, they all rose to their feet. They