“I am going to give you the scoop of your life, Tab,” he said. There was no mockery in his voice, it was, if anything, very serious and gentle.
“I am going to write a full confession of how I killed all three of you.”
Tab said nothing. This whimsical act of the man was in keeping with the theory of lunacy. For half-an-hour, he listened to the scratching of a pen and the rustle of paper as one by one the sheets were covered, blotted, and neatly put aside. What was his end to be? Rex would kill him; he had no doubt whatever on this score. The man was impervious to appeal and it was senseless to call for help. His voice would never escape the confinement of that underground room.
Carver and he had made an experiment after Trasmere’s death. He had stayed in the vault and fired a blank cartridge whilst Carver was outside the house listening, but no sound had come out.
Tab looked round for the sign of a weapon, but if Lander had brought one, it was not visible.
“There, I’ve said everything, and here it shall stay on the table and when they find your bones they will know why you died.”
Watching him, Tab saw him sign his name with a flourish, the old flourish which had often amused him.
“What are you going to do, Lander?” he asked quietly and Lander smiled.
“Have no fear,” he said, “I am not going to disfigure your athletic body or do you any violence. You are going to stay here and die.”
Tab fixed him with an unwavering glance.