And Then There Were None by Agatha Christie Page A

gravely:
    ‘And yet, you know, the argument holds. Hang it all, I’m a doctor, I know something about suicides. Anthony Marston wasn’t a suicidal type.’
    Lombard said doubtfully:
    ‘It couldn’t, I suppose, have been an accident?’
    Blore snorted, unconvinced.
    ‘Damned queer sort of accident,’ he grunted.
    There was a pause, then Blore said:
    ‘About the woman—’ and stopped.
    ‘Mrs Rogers?’
    ‘Yes. It’s possible, isn’t it, that that might have been an accident?’
    Philip Lombard said:
    ‘An accident? In what way?’
    Blore looked slightly embarrassed. His red-brick face grew a little deeper in hue. He said, almost blurting out the words:
    ‘Look here, doctor, you did give her some dope, you know.’
    Armstrong stared at him.
    ‘Dope? What do you mean?’
    ‘Last night. You said yourself you’d given her something to make her sleep.’
    ‘Oh that, yes. A harmless sedative.’
    ‘What was it exactly?’
    ‘I gave her a mild dose of trional. A perfectly harmless preparation.’
    Blore grew redder still. He said:
    ‘Look here—not to mince matters—you didn’t give her an overdose, did you?’
    Dr Armstrong said angrily:
    ‘I don’t know what you mean.’
    Blore said:
    ‘It’s possible, isn’t it, that you may have made a mistake? These things do happen once in a while.’
    Armstrong said sharply:
    ‘I did nothing of the sort. The suggestion is ridiculous.’ He stopped and added in a cold biting tone: ‘Or do you suggest that I gave her an overdose on purpose?’
    Philip Lombard said quickly:
    ‘Look here, you two, got to keep our heads. Don’t let’s start slinging accusations about.’
    Blore said sullenly:
    ‘I only suggested the doctor had made a mistake.’
    Dr Armstrong smiled with an effort. He said, showing his teeth in a somewhat mirthless smile:
    ‘Doctors can’t afford to make mistakes of that kind, my friend.’
    Blore said deliberately:
    ‘It wouldn’t be the first you’ve made—if that gramophone record is to be believed!’
    Armstrong went white. Philip Lombard said quickly and angrily to Blore:
    ‘What’s the sense of making yourself offensive? We’re all in the same boat. We’ve got to pull together. What about your own pretty little spot of perjury?’
    Blore took a step forward, his hands clenched. He said in a thick voice:
    ‘Perjury, be damned! That’s a foul lie! You may try and shut me up, Mr Lombard, but there’s things I want to know—and one of them is about you !’
    Lombard’s eyebrows rose.
    ‘About me?’
    ‘Yes. I want to know why you brought a revolver down here on a pleasant social visit?’
    Lombard said:
    ‘You do, do you?’
    ‘Yes, I do, Mr Lombard.’
    Lombard said unexpectedly:
    ‘You know, Blore, you’re not nearly such a fool as you look.’
    ‘That’s as may be. What about that revolver?’
    Lombard smiled.
    ‘I brought it because I expected to run into a spot of trouble.’
    Blore said suspiciously:
    ‘You didn’t tell us that last night.’
    Lombard shook his head.
    ‘You were holding out on us?’ Blore persisted.
    ‘In a way, yes,’ said Lombard.
    ‘Well, come on, out with it.’
    Lombard said slowly:
    ‘I allowed you all to think that I was asked here in the same way as most of the others. That’s not quite true. As a matter of fact I was approached by a little Jew-boy—Morris his name was. He offered me a hundred guineas to come down here and keep my eyes open—said I’d got a reputation for being a good man in a tight place.’
    ‘Well?’ Blore prompted impatiently.
    Lombard said with a grin:
    ‘That’s all.’
    Dr Armstrong said:
    ‘But surely he told you more than that?’
    ‘Oh 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