- One or two of your old cronies are coming - would like to have a talk over old times.
Well, he'd enjoy a chat about old times. He'd had a fancy lately that fellows were rather lighting shy of him. All owing to that damned rumour! By God, it was pretty hard - nearly thirty years ago now! Armstrong had talked, he supposed. Damned young pup! What did he know about it? Oh, well, no good brooding about these things! One fancied things sometimes - fancied a fellow was looking at you queerly.
This Indian Island now, he'd be interested to see it. A lot of gossip flying about. Looked as though there might be something in the rumour that the Admiralty or the War Office or the Air Force had got hold of it...
Young Elmer Robson, the American millionaire, had actually built the place. Spent thousands on it, so it was said. Every mortal luxury...
Exeter! And an hour to wait! And he didn't want to wait. He wanted to get on...
VI
Dr. Armstrong was driving his Morris across Salisbury Plain. He was very tired... Success had its penalties. There had been a time when he had sat in his consulting room in Harley Street, correctly apparelled, surrounded with the most up-to-date appliances and the most luxurious furnishings and waited - waited through the empty days for his venture to succeed or fail...
Well, it had succeeded! He'd been lucky! Lucky and skillful of course. He was a good man at his job - but that wasn't enough for success. You had to have luck as well. And he'd had it! An accurate diagnosis, a couple of grateful women patients - women with money and position - and word had got about. "You ought to try Armstrong - quite a young man - but so clever - Pam had been to all sorts of people for years and he put his finger on the trouble at once!" The ball had started rolling.
And now Dr. Armstrong had definitely arrived. His days were full. He had little leisure. And so, on this August morning, he was glad that he was leaving London and going to be for some days on an island off the Devon coast. Not that it was exactly a holiday. The letter he had received had been rather vague in its terms, but there was nothing vague about the accompanying cheque. A whacking fee. These Owens must be rolling in money. Some little difficulty, it seemed, a husband who was worried about his wife's health and wanted a report on it without her being alarmed. She wouldn't hear of seeing a doctor. Her nerves -
Nerves! The doctor's eyebrows went up. These women and their nerves! Well, it was good for business, after all. Half the women who consulted him had nothing the matter with them but boredom, but they wouldn't thank you for telling them so! And one could usually find something.
"A slightly uncommon condition of the - some long word - nothing at all serious - but it just needs putting right. A simple treatment."
Well, medicine was mostly faith-healing when it came to it. And he had a good manner - he could inspire hope and belief.
Lucky that he'd managed to pull himself together in time after that business ten - no, fifteen years ago. It had been a near thing, that! He'd been going to pieces. The shock had pulled him together. He'd cut out drink altogether. By Jove, it had been a near thing though...
With a devastating car-splitting blast on the horn an enormous Super Sports Dalmain car rushed past him at eighty miles an hour. Dr. Armstrong nearly went into the hedge. One of these young fools who tore round the country. He hated them. That had been a near shave, too. Damned young fool!
VII
Tony Marston, roaring down into Mere, thought to himself:
"The amount of cars crawling about the roads is frightful. Always something blocking your way. And they will drive in the middle of the road! Pretty hopeless driving in England, anyway... Not like France where you really could let out..."
Should he stop here for a drink, or push on? Heaps of time! Only another hundred miles and a bit to go. He'd have a gin and gingerbeer. Fizzing hot day!
This island place ought to be rather good fun - if the weather lasted. Who were these Owens, he wondered? Rich and stinking, probably. Badger was rather good at nosing people like that out. Of course, he had to, poor old chap, with no money of his own...
Hope they'd do one well in drinks. Never knew with these fellows who'd made their money and weren't born to it. Pity that story about Gabrielle Turl having bought Indian Island wasn't true. He'd like to have been in with that film star crowd.
Oh, well, he supposed there'd be a few girls there...
Coming out of the Hotel, he stretched himself, yawned, looked up at the blue sky and climbed into the Dalmain.
Several young women looked at him admiringly - his six feet of well-proportioned body, his crisp hair, tanned face, and intensely blue eyes.
He let in the clutch with a roar and leapt up the narrow street. Old men and errand boys jumped for safety. The latter looked after the car admiringly.
Anthony Marston proceeded on his triumphal progress.
VIII
Mr. Blore was in the slow train from Plymouth. There was only one other person in his carriage, an elderly seafaring gentleman with a bleary eye. At the present moment he had dropped off to sleep.
Mr. Blore was writing carefully in a little notebook.
"That's the lot," he muttered to himself. "Emily Brent, Vera Claythorne, Dr. Armstrong, Anthony Marston, old Justice Wargrave, Philip Lombard, General Macarthur, C.M.G., D.S.O. Manservant and wife: Mr. and Mrs. Rogers."
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