Vera said conventionally:
"I do hope it lasts - the weather, I mean. Our English summers are so treacherous."
With a slight lack of originality Lombard asked:
"Do you know this part of the world well?"
"No, I've never been here before." She added quickly, conscientiously determined to make her position clear at once, "I haven't even seen my employer yet."
"Your employer?"
"Yes, I'm Mrs. Owen's secretary."
"Oh, I see." Just imperceptibly his manner changed. It was slightly more assured - easier in tone. He said: "Isn't that rather unusual?"
Vera laughed.
"Oh, no, I don't think so. Her own secretary was suddenly taken ill and she wired to an agency for a substitute and they sent me."
"So that was it. And suppose you don't like the post when you've got there?"
Vera laughed again.
"Oh, it's only temporary - a holiday post. I've got a permanent job at a girls' school. As a matter of fact I'm frightfully thrilled at the prospect of seeing Indian Island. There's been such a lot about it in the papers. Is it really very fascinating?"
Lombard said:
"I don't know. I haven't seen it."
"Oh, really? The Owens are frightfully keen on it, I suppose. What are they like? Do tell me."
Lombard thought: "Awkward, this - am I supposed to have met them or not?" He said quickly:
"There's a wasp crawling up your arm. No - keep quite still."
He made a convincing pounce. "There. It's gone!"
"Oh, thank you. There are a lot of wasps about this summer."
"Yes, I suppose it's the heat. Who are we waiting for, do you know?"
"I haven't the least idea."
The loud drawn out scream of an approaching train was heard. Lombard said:
"That will be the train now."
II
It was a tall soldierly old man who appeared at the exit from the platform. His grey hair was clipped close and he had a neatly trimmed white moustache.
His porter, staggering slightly under the weight of the solid leather suitcase, indicated Vera and Lombard.
Vera came forward in a competent manner. She said:
"I am Mrs. Owen's secretary. There is a car here waiting." She added: "This is Mr. Lombard."
The faded blue eyes, shrewd in spite of their age, sized up Lombard. For a moment a judgement showed in them - had there been any one to read it.
"Good-looking fellow. Something just a little wrong about him..."
The three of them got into the waiting taxi. They drove through the sleepy streets of little Oakbridge and continued about a mile on the main Plymouth road. Then they plunged into a maze of cross country lanes, steep, green and narrow.
General Macarthur said:
"Don't know this part of Devon at all. My little place is in East Devon - just on the border-line of Dorset."
Vera said:
"It really is lovely here. The hills and the red earth and everything so green and luscious looking."
Philip Lombard said critically:
"It's a bit shut in... I like open country myself. Where you can see what's coming..."
General Macarthur said to him:
"You've seen a bit of the world, I fancy?"
Lombard shrugged his shoulders disparagingly.
"I've knocked about here and there, sir."
He thought to himself: "He'll ask me now if I was old enough to be in the War. These old boys always do."
But General Macarthur did not mention the War.
III
They came up over a steep hill and down a zig-zag track to Sticklehaven - a mere cluster of cottages with a fishing boat or two drawn up on the beach.
Illuminated by the setting sun, they had their first glimpse of Indian Island jutting up out of the sea to the south.
Vera said, surprised:
"It's a long way out."
She had pictured it differently, close to shore, crowned with a beautiful white house. But there was no house visible, only the boldly silhouetted rock with its faint resemblance to a giant Indian's head. There was something sinister about it. She shivered faintly.
Outside a little inn, the Seven Stars, three people were sitting. There was the hunched elderly figure of the judge, the upright form of Miss Brent, and a third man - a big bluff man who came forward and introduced himself.
"Thought we might as well wait for you," he said. "Make one trip of it. Allow me to introduce myself. Name's Davis. Natal, South Africa's my natal spot, ha, ha!"
He laughed breezily.
Mr. Justice Wargrave looked at him with active malevolence. He seemed to be wishing that he could order the court to be cleared. Miss Emily Brent was clearly not sure if she liked colonials.
"Any one care for a little nip before we embark?" asked Mr. Davis hospitably.
Nobody assenting to this proposition, Mr. Davis turned and held up a finger.
"Mustn't delay, then. Our good host and hostess will be expecting us," he said.
He might have noticed that a curious constraint came over the other members of the party. It was as though the mention of their host and hostess had a curiously paralyzing effect upon the guests.
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