The Hollow by Agatha Christie Page A

what people, high-minded, sensitive, fastidious, honourable people, constantly did. They listened at doors, and opened letters and spied and snooped—not because for one moment they approved of such conduct, but because before the sheer necessity of human anguish they were rendered desperate.
    Poor devils, he thought, poor suffering human devils. JohnChristow knew a good deal about human suffering. He had not very much pity for weakness, but he had for suffering, for it was, he knew, the strong who suffer.
    If Gerda knew—
    Nonsense, he said to himself, why should she? She’s gone up to bed and she’s fast asleep. She’s no imagination, never has had.
    He went in through the french windows, switched on a lamp, closed and locked the windows. Then, switching off the light, he left the room, found the switch in the hall, went quickly and lightly up the stairs. A second switch turned off the hall light. He stood for a moment by the bedroom door, his hand on the doorknob, then he turned it and went in.
    The room was dark and he could hear Gerda’s even breathing. She stirred as he came in and closed the door. Her voice came to him, blurred and indistinct with sleep.
    â€œIs that you, John?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œAren’t you very late? What time is it?”
    He said easily:
    â€œI’ve no idea. Sorry I woke you up. I had to go in with the woman and have a drink.”
    He made his voice sound bored and sleepy.
    Gerda murmured: “Oh? Goodnight, John.”
    There was a rustle as she turned over in bed.
    It was all right! As usual, he’d been lucky. As usual —just for a moment it sobered him, the thought of how often his luck had held! Time and again there had been a moment when he’d held his breath and said, “If this goes wrong.” And it hadn’t gone wrong! But some day, surely, his luck would change.
    He undressed quickly and got into bed. Funny that kid’s fortune. “And this one is over your head and has power over you…” Veronica! And she had had power over him all right.
    â€œBut not anymore, my girl,” he thought with a kind of savage satisfaction. “All that’s over. I’m quit of you now!”

Ten
    I t was ten o’clock the next morning when John came down. Breakfast was on the sideboard. Gerda had had her breakfast sent up to her in bed and had been rather perturbed since perhaps she might be “giving trouble.”
    Nonsense, John had said. People like the Angkatells who still managed to have butlers and servants might just as well give them something to do.
    He felt very kindly towards Gerda this morning. All that nervous irritation that had so fretted him of late seemed to have died down and disappeared.
    Sir Henry and Edward had gone out shooting, Lady Angkatell told him. She herself was busy with a gardening basket and gardening gloves. He stayed talking to her for a while until Gudgeon approached him with a letter on a salver.
    â€œThis has just come by hand, sir.”
    He took it with slightly raised eyebrows.
    Veronica!
    He strolled into the library, tearing it open.
    Please come over this morning. I must see you.
    Veronica.
    Imperious as ever, he thought. He’d a good mind not to go. Then he thought he might as well and get it over. He’d go at once.
    He took the path opposite the library window, passed by the swimming pool which was a kind of nucleus with paths radiating from it in every direction, one up the hill to the woods proper, one from the flower walk above the house, one from the farm and the one that led on to the lane which he took now. A few yards up the lane was the cottage called Dovecotes.
    Veronica was waiting for him. She spoke from the window of the pretentious half-timbered building.
    â€œCome inside, John. It’s cold this morning.”
    There was a fire lit in the sitting room, which was furnished in off-white with pale cyclamen cushions.
    Looking at her this