There was something magical about an island—the mere word suggested fantasy. You lost touch with the world—an island was a world of its own. A world, perhaps, from which you might never return.
“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.”
Mr. Justice Wargrave, lately retired from the bench, puffed at a cigar and ran an interested eye through the political news in The Times.
General Macarthur looked out of the carriage window. The train was just coming into Exeter, where he had to change.
I’ve no doubt in my own mind that we have been invited here by a madman—probably a dangerous homicidal lunatic.”
Vera Claythorne, in a third-class carriage with five other travellers in it, leaned her head back and shut her eyes.
Dr. Armstrong was driving his Morris across Salisbury Plain. He was very tired … Success had its penalties.
“She’s a fine boat that, Ma’am. You could go to Plymouth in her as easy as winking.”
“Watch and pray,” he said. “Watch and pray. The day of judgment is at hand.”
“That’s peace—real peace. To come to the end—not to have to go on … Yes, peace….”