Blore went swiftly back along the corridor.
He paused first at Dr. Armstrong's door and tapped. There was no answer.
He waited a minute, then went on to Philip Lombard's room.
Here the answer came at once.
"Who's there?"
"It's Blore. I don't think Armstrong is in his room. Wait a minute."
He went on to the door at the end of the corridor. Here he tapped again.
"Miss Claythorne. Miss Claythorne."
Vera's voice, startled, answered him:
"Who is it? What's the matter?"
"It's all right, Miss Claythorne. Wait a minute. I'll come back."
He raced back to Lombard's room. The door opened as he did so. Lombard stood there. He held a candle in his left hand. He had pulled on his trousers over his pyjamas. His right hand rested in the pocket of his pyjama jacket. He said sharply:
"What the hell's all this?"
Blore explained rapidly. Lombard's eyes lit up.
"Armstrong - eh? So he's our pigeon!" He moved along to Armstrong's door. "Sorry, Blore, but I don't take anything on trust."
He rapped sharply on the panel.
"Armstrong - Armstrong."
There was no answer.
Lombard dropped to his knees and peered through the key-hole. He inserted his little finger gingerly into the lock.
He said:
"Key's not in the door on the inside."
Blore said:
"That means he locked it on the outside and took it with him."
Philip nodded:
"Ordinary precaution to take. We'll get him, Blore... This time, we'll get him! Half a second."
He raced along to Vera's room.
"Vera."
"Yes."
"We're hunting Armstrong. He's out of his room. Whatever you do, don't open your door. Understand?"
"Yes, I understand."
"If Armstrong comes along and says that I've been killed, or Blore's been killed, pay no attention. See? Only open your door if both Blore and I speak to you. Got that?"
Vera said:
"Yes. I'm not a complete fool."
Lombard said:
"Good."
He joined Blore. He said:
"And now - after him! The hunt's up!"
Blore said:
"We'd better be careful. He's got a revolver, remember."
Philip Lombard raced down the stairs chuckling.
He said:
"That's where you're wrong." He undid the front door, remarking: "Latch pushed back - so that he could get in again easily."
He went on:
"I've got that revolver!" He took it half out of his pocket as he spoke. "Found it put back in my drawer tonight."
Blore stopped dead on the doorstep. His face changed. Philip Lombard saw it.
He said impatiently:
"Don't be a damned fool, Blore! I'm not going to shoot you! Go back and barricade yourself in if you like! I'm off after Armstrong."
He started off into the moonlight. Blore, after a minute's hesitation, followed him.
He thought to himself:
"I suppose I'm asking for it. But after all -"
After all he had tackled criminals armed with revolvers before now. Whatever else he lacked, Blore did not lack courage. Show him the danger and he would tackle it pluckily. He was not afraid of danger in the open, only of danger undefined and tinged with the supernatural.
VI
Vera, left to wait results, got up and dressed.
She glanced over once or twice at the door. It was a good solid door. It was both bolted and locked and had an oak chair wedged under the handle.
It could not be broken open by force. Certainly not by Dr. Armstrong. He was not a physically powerful man.
If she were Armstrong intent on murder, it was cunning that she would employ, not force.
She amused herself by reflecting on the means he might employ.
He might, as Philip had suggested, announce that one of the other two men was dead. Or he might possibly pretend to be mortally wounded himself, might drag himself groaning to her door.
There were other possibilities. He might inform her that the house was on fire. More, he might actually set the house on fire... Yes, that would be a possibility. Lure the other two men out of the house, then, having previously laid a trail of petrol, he might set light to it. And she, like an idiot, would remain barricaded in her room until it was too late.
She crossed over to the window. Not too bad. At a pinch one could escape that way. It would mean a drop - but there was a handy flower-bed.
She sat down and picking up her diary began to write in it in a clear flowing hand.
One must pass the time.
Suddenly she stiffened to attention. She had heard a sound. It was, she thought, a sound like breaking glass. And it came from somewhere downstairs.
She listened hard, but the sound was not repeated.
She heard, or thought she heard, stealthy sounds of footsteps, the creak of stairs, the rustle of garments - but there was nothing definite, and she concluded, as Blore had done earlier, that such sounds had their origin in her own imagination.
But presently she heard sounds of a more concrete nature.
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