In response to Davis' beckoning finger, a man detached himself from a nearby wall against which he was leaning and came up to them. His rolling gait proclaimed him a man of the sea. He had a weather-beaten face and dark eyes with a slightly evasive expression. He spoke in his soft Devon voice.
"Will you be ready to be starting for the island, ladies and gentlemen? The boat's waiting. There's two gentlemen coming by car, but Mr. Owen's orders was not to wait for them as they might arrive at any time."
The party got up. Their guide led them along a small stone jetty. Alongside it a motor boat was lying.
Emily Brent said:
"That's a very small boat."
The boat's owner said persuasively:
"She's a fine boat, that, Ma'am. You could go to Plymouth in her as easy as winking."
Mr. Justice Wargrave said sharply:
"There are a good many of us."
"She'd take double the number, sir."
Philip Lombard said in his pleasant easy voice:
"It's quite all right. Glorious weather - no swell."
Rather doubtfully, Miss Brent permitted herself to be helped into the boat. The others followed suit. There was as yet no fraternizing among the party. It was as though each member of it was puzzled by the other members.
They were just about to cast loose when their guide paused, boat-hook in hand.
Down the steep track into the village a car was coming. A car so fantastically powerful, so superlatively beautiful that it had all the nature of an apparition. At the wheel sat a young man, his hair blown back by the wind. In the blaze of the evening light he looked, not a man, but a young God, a Hero God out of some Northern Saga.
He touched the horn and a great roar of sound echoed from the rocks of the bay.
It was a fantastic moment. In it, Anthony Marston seemed to be something more than mortal. Afterwards, more than one of those present remembered that moment.
IV
Fred Narracott sat by the engine thinking to himself that this was a queer lot. Not at all his idea of what Mr. Owen's guests were likely to be. He'd expected something altogether more classy. Togged up women and gentlemen in yachting costume and all very rich and important looking.
Not at all like Mr. Elmer Robson's parties. A faint grin came to Fred Narracott's lips as he remembered the millionaire's guests. That had been a party if you like - and the drink they'd got through!
This Mr. Owen must be a very different sort of gentleman. Funny it was, thought Fred, that he'd never yet set eyes on Owen - or his Missus either. Never been down here yet, he hadn't. Everything ordered and paid for by that Mr. Morris. Instructions always very clear and payment prompt, but it was odd, all the same. The papers said there was some mystery about Owen. Mr. Narracott agreed with them.
Perhaps, after all, it was Miss Gabrielle Turl who had bought the island. But that theory departed from him as he surveyed his passengers. Not this lot - none of them looked likely to have anything to do with a film star.
He summed them up dispassionately.
One old maid - the sour kind - he knew them well enough. She was a Tartar, he could bet. Old military gentleman - real Army by the look of him. Nice looking young lady - but the ordinary kind, not glamourous - no Hollywood touch about her. That bluff cheery gent - he wasn't a real gentleman. Retired tradesman, that's what he is, thought Fred Narracott. The other gentleman, the lean hungry looking gentleman with the quick eyes, he was a queer one, he was. Just possible he might have something to do with the pictures.
No, there was only one satisfactory passenger in the boat. The last gentleman, the one who had arrived in the car (and what a car! A car such as had never been seen in Sticklehaven before. Must have cost hundreds and hundreds, a car like that).
He was the right kind. Born to money, he was. If the party had been all like him... he'd understand it...
Queer business when you came to think of it - the whole thing was queer - very queer...
V
The boat churned its way round the rock. Now at last the house came into view. The south side of the island was quite different It shelved gently down to the sea. The house was there facing south - low and square and modern-looking with rounded windows letting in all the light.
An exciting house - a house that lived up to expectation!
Fred Narracott shut off the engine, they nosed their way gently into a little natural inlet between rocks.
Philip Lombard said sharply:
"Must be difficult to land here in dirty weather."
Fred Narracott said cheerfully:
"Can't land on Indian Island when there's a southeasterly. Sometimes 'tis cut off for a week or more."
Vera Claythorne thought:
"The catering must be very difficult. That's the worst of an island. All the domestic problems are so worrying."
The boat grated against the rocks. Fred Narracott jumped out and he and Lombard helped the others to alight. Narracott made the boat fast to a ring in the rock. Then he led the way up steps cut in the rock.
General Macarthur said:
"Ha, delightful spot!"
But he felt uneasy. Damned odd sort of place.
As the party ascended the steps, and came out on a terrace above, their spirits revived. In the open doorway of the house a correct butler was awaiting them, and something about his gravity reassured them. And then the house itself was really most attractive, the view from the terrace magnificent...
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