They had left it like that. What else was there to say?

Together Armstrong and Lombard had carried the inert body of Anthony Marston to his bedroom and had laid him there covered over with a sheet.

When they came downstairs again, the others were standing in a group, shivering a little, though the night was not cold.

Emily Brent said:

«We’d better go to bed. It’s late.»

It was past twelve o’clock. The suggestion was a wise one – yet every one hesitated. It was as though they clung to each other’s company for reassurance.

The judge said: «Yes, we must get some sleep.»

Rogers said: «I haven’t cleared yet – in the dining-room.»

Lombard said curtly: «Do it in the morning.»

Armstrong said to him: «Is your wife all right?»

«I’ll go and see, sir.»

He returned a minute or two later.

«Sleeping beautiful, she is.»

«Good,» said the doctor. «Don’t disturb her.»

«No, sir. I’ll just put things straight in the dining-room and make sure everything’s locked up right, and then I’ll turn in.»

He went across the hall into the dining-room.

The others went upstairs, a slow unwilling procession.

If this had been an old house, with creaking wood, and dark shadows, and heavily panelled walls, there might have been an eerie feeling. But this house was the essence of modernity. There were no dark corners – no possible sliding panels – it was flooded with electric light – everything was new and bright and shining. There was nothing hidden in this house, nothing concealed. It had no atmosphere about it.

Somehow, that was the most frightening thing of all…

They exchanged good-nights on the upper landing. Each of them went into his or her own room, and each of them automatically, almost without conscious thought, locked the door…