it or leave it, Captain Lombard.’
He had said thoughtfully:
‘A hundred guineas, eh?’
He had said it in a casual way as though a hundred guineas was nothing to him. A hundred guineas when he was literally down to his last square meal! He had fancied, though, that the little man had not been deceived—that was the damnable part, you couldn’t deceive men like that about money—they knew!
He said in the same casual tone:
‘And you can’t give me any further information?’
Mr Isaac Morris had shaken his little bald head very positively.
‘No, Captain Lombard, the matter rests there. It is understood by my client that your reputation is that of a good man in a tight place. I am empowered to hand you one hundred guineas in return for which you will travel to Sticklehaven, Devon. The nearest station is Oakbridge, you will be met there and motored to Sticklehaven where a motor launch will convey you to Soldier Island. There you will hold yourself at the disposal of my client.’
Lombard had said abruptly:
‘For how long?’
‘Not longer than a week at most.’
Fingering his small moustache, Captain Lombard said:
‘You understand I can’t undertake anything—illegal?’
He had darted a very sharp glance at the other as he had spoken. There had been a very faint smile on the lips of Mr Morris as he answered gravely:
‘If anything illegal is proposed, you will, of course, be at perfect liberty to withdraw.’
Damn the smooth little brute, he had smiled! It was as though he knew very well that in Lombard’s past actions legality had not always been a sine qua non…
Lombard’s own lips parted in a grin.
By Jove, he’d sailed pretty near the wind once or twice! But he’d always got away with it! There wasn’t much he drew the line at really…
No, there wasn’t much he’d draw the line at. He fancied that he was going to enjoy himself at Soldier Island…
IV
In a non-smoking carriage Miss Emily Brent sat very upright as was her custom. She was sixty-five 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…
Enveloped in an aura of righteousness and unyielding principles, Miss Brent sat in her crowded third-class carriage and triumphed over its discomfort and its heat. Everyone made such a fuss over things nowadays! They wanted injections before they had teeth pulled—they took drugs if they couldn’t sleep—they wanted easy chairs and cushions and the girls allowed their figures to slop about anyhow and lay about half naked on the beaches in summer.
Miss Brent’s lips set closely. She would like to make an example of certain people.
She remembered last year’s summer holiday. This year, however, it would be quite different. Soldier Island…
Mentally she re-read the letter which she had already read so many times.
‘Dear Miss Brent,
I do hope you remember me? We were together at Belhaven Guest House in August some years ago, and we seemed to have so much in common.
I am starting a guest house of my own on an island off the coast of Devon. I think there is really an opening for a place where there is good plain cooking and a nice old-fashioned type of person. None of this nudity and gramophones half the night. I shall be very glad if you could see your way to spending your summer holiday on Soldier Island—quite free—as my guest. Would early in August suit you? Perhaps the 8th.
Yours sincerely,
U.N.O—’
What was the name? The signature was rather difficult to read. Emily Brent thought impatiently: ‘So many people write their signatures quite illegibly.’
She let her mind run back over the people at Belhaven. She had been there two summers running. There had been that nice middle-aged woman—Miss—Miss—now what was her name?—her father had been a Canon. And there had been a Mrs Olton—Ormen—No, surely it was Oliver! Yes,—Oliver.
Soldier Island! There had been things in the paper about Soldier Island—something about a film star—or was it an American millionaire?
Of course often those places went very cheap—islands didn’t suit everybody. They thought the idea was romantic but when they came to live there they realised the disadvantages and were only too glad to sell.
Emily Brent thought to herself: ‘I shall be getting a free holiday at any rate.’
With her income so much reduced and so many dividends not being paid, that was indeed something to take into consideration. If only she could remember a little more about Mrs—or was it Miss—Oliver?
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 flies.
He hadn’t got it clear who this fellow Owen was. A friend of Spoof Leggard’s, apparently—and of Johnnie Dyer’s.
‘—One or two of your old cronies are coming—would like to have a talk over old times.’
Well, he’d enjoy a chat about old times. He’d had a fancy lately that fellows were rather fighting shy of him. All owing to that damned rumour! By God, it was pretty hard—nearly thirty years ago now! Armitage had talked, he supposed. Damned young pup! What did he know about it? Oh, well, no good brooding about these things! One fancied things sometimes—fancied a fellow was looking at you queerly.
This Soldier Island, now, he’d be interested to see it. A lot of gossip flying about. Looked as though there might be something in the rumour that the Admiralty or the War Office or the Air Force had got hold of it…
Young Elmer Robson, the American millionaire, had actually built the place. Spent thousands on it, so it was said. Every mortal luxury…
Exeter! And an hour to wait! And he didn’t want to wait. He wanted to get on…
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 apparelled, surrounded with the most up to date appliances and the most luxurious furnishings and waited—waited through the empty days for his venture to succeed or fail…
Well,
