> I
In the corner of a •rst-class smoking carriage, Mr Justice Wargrave, lately retired from the bench, puffed at a cigar and ran an interested eye through the political news in The Times.
He laid the paper down and glanced out of the window. They were running now through Somerset.
He glanced at his watch – another two hours to go. He went over in his mind all that had appeared in the papers about Soldier Island. There had been its original purchase by an American millionaire who was crazy about yachting – and an account of the luxurious modern house he had built on this little island off the Devon coast. The unfortunate fact that the new third wife of the American millionaire was a bad sailor had led to the subsequent putting up of the house and island for sale. Various glowing advertisements of it had appeared in the papers. Then came the •rst bald statement that it had been bought – by a Mr Owen.
After that the rumors of the gossip writers had started. Soldier Island had really been bought by Miss Gabrielle Turl, the Hollywood •lm star! She wanted to spend some months there free from all publicity! Busy Bee had hinted delicately that it was to be an abode for Royalty??? Mr Merryweather had had it whispered to him that it had been bought for a honeymoon – Young Lord L–– had surrendered to Cupid at last! Jonas knew for a fact that it had been purchased by the Admiralty with a view to carrying out some very hush-hush experiments!
> II
Vera Claythorne, in a third-class carriage with •ve other travelers in it, leaned her head back and shut her eyes. How hot it was traveling by train today! It would be nice to get to the sea! Really a great piece of luck getting this job. When you wanted a holiday post it nearly always meant looking after a swarm of children – secretarial holiday posts were much more dif•cult to get. Even the agency hadn’t held out much hope. And then the letter had come.
> III
Philip Lombard, summing up the girl opposite in a mere •ash of his quick moving eyes thought to himself:
> IV
In a non-smoking carriage Miss Emily Brent sat very upright as was her custom. She was sixty-•ve and she did not approve of lounging. Her father, a Colonel of the old school, had been particular about deportment. The present generation was shamelessly lax – in their carriage, and in every other way . . .
> V
General Macarthur looked out of the carriage window. The train was just coming into Exeter, where he had to change. Damnable, these slow branch line trains! This place, Soldier Island, was really no distance at all as the crow •ies.
> 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 apparend, surrounded with the most up to date appliances and luxurious furnishings and waited – waited through the empty days for his venture to succeed or fail . . .
> VII
Tony Marston, roaring down into Mere, thought to himself:
> 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.”
