Bassett looked at his watch—nearly eight—probably two hours to wait. The best thing he could do was to get them together and keep them as quiet as he could. As he went down the path his mind collected and marshalled in order the facts he would have to present. They had all been in the house except Stokes on the balcony and Flora walking round the island. Stokes eaten into by a hopeless love, Flora on fire with jealousy and hate—passions that make for murder. “God, what’s going to be the end of this?” he groaned to himself.
He found them in a group near the pine grove, excitedly conferring together. They had been back and forth to the house and the wharf, some aimlessly running about, others trying to do something intelligent and helpful. Stokes had just returned with the electric torch and they were preparing to search the ground for foot-prints. Bassett brought their activities to an end and shepherded them to the house. With dragging feet and lowered heads they trailed up the path and filed into the living-room.
Here, under the radiance of the lights, they looked at one another as if expecting to see startling changes and fell groaning into chairs, or sat, stiff and upright, with rigid muscles. The effect of the shock showed in Mrs. Cornell, Stokes and Shine, in a sudden outburst of loquacity. They went over and over it, what they were saying, where they were, what had entered their minds when they heard the shot. “And I thought to myself,” sentence after sentence started that way. Then the feverish talk began to die. Bassett had told them when the authorities might be expected and as the hour drew near, dread of the drama in which they found themselves stilled their tongues. The sea breeze, freighted with the acrid odors of uncovered mud and seaweed, blew through the room. Bassett rose and closed the garden door, and eyes shifted to him, hung on his hand as it slid the bolt.
“What are you shutting the door for?” Mrs. Cornell quavered.
“I thought there was too much draught.”
“Oh, what does that matter,” she wailed, “with Sybil killed and floating out to sea?”
She broke into loud hiccoughing sobs. Stokes shifted in his chair and snarled out:
“Can’t you stop making that noise?”
Bassett crossed to where Anne was sitting by the entrance. She had her back to the room and was looking out at the lights of Hayworth dotting the shore. He stood behind her chair and put his hand on her shoulder. Her fingers stole up and rested on his, icy cold. He bent till his head was close to hers and whispered:
“Bear up. Thank God this can’t touch you in any way.”