Vera Claythorne spoke in a trembling voice. She said:

«I’d like to tell you. About that child – Cyril Hamilton. I was nursery governess to him. He was forbidden to swim out far. One day, when my attention was distracted, he started off. I swam after him… I couldn’t get there in time… It was awful… But it wasn’t my fault. At the inquest the Coroner exonerated me. And his mother – she was so kind. If even she didn’t blame me, why should – why should this awful thing be said? It’s not fair – not fair…»

She broke down, weeping bitterly.

General Macarthur patted her shoulder. He said:

«There, there, my dear. Of course it’s not true. Fellow’s a madman. A madman! Got a bee in his bonnet! Got hold of the wrong end of the stick all round.»

He stood erect, squaring his shoulders. He barked out:

«Best really to leave this sort of thing unanswered. However, feel I ought to say – no truth – no truth whatsoever in what he said about – er – young Arthur Richmond. Richmond was one of my officers. I sent him on a reconnaissance. He was killed. Natural course of events in war time. Wish to say resent very much – slur on my wife. Best woman in the world. Absolutely – Caesar’s wife!»

General Macarthur sat down. His shaking hand pulled at his moustache. The effort to speak had cost him a good deal.

Lombard spoke. His eyes were amused. He said:

«About those natives —»

Marston said: «What about them?»

Philip Lombard grinned.

«Story’s quite true! I left ‘em! Matter of self-preservation. We were lost in the bush. I and a couple of other fellows took what food there was and cleared out.»

General Macarthur said sternly:

«You abandoned your men – left them to starve?»

Lombard said: «Not quite the act of a pukka sahib, I’m afraid. But self-preservation’s a man’s first duty. And natives don’t mind dying, you know. They don’t feel about it as Europeans do.»

Vera lifted her face from her hands. She said, staring at him:

«You left them – to die?»

Lombard answered: «I left them to die.»

His amused eyes looked into her horrified ones.

Anthony Marston said in a slow puzzled voice:

«I’ve just been thinking – John and Lucy Combes. Must have been a couple of kids I ran over near Cambridge. Beastly bad luck.»

Mr. Justice Wargrave said acidly: «For them, or for you?»

Anthony said: «Well, I was thinking – for me – but of course, you’re right, sir, it was damned bad luck on them. Of course it was a pure accident. They rushed out of some cottage or other. I had my licence endorsed for a year. Beastly nuisance.»

Dr. Armstrong said warmly:

«This speeding’s all wrong – all wrong! Young men like you are a danger to the community.»

Anthony shrugged his shoulders. He said:

«Speed’s come to stay. English roads are hopeless, of course. Can’t get up a decent pace on them.»

He looked round vaguely for his glass, picked it up off a table and went over to the side table and helped himself to another whiskey and soda. He said over his shoulder:

«Well, anyway, it wasn’t my fault. Just an accident!»