In and out, in and out, with a precipice first one side of them, then the other. Mr Satterthwaite felt slightly giddy, he also felt slightly sick. The road was not very wide. And still they climbed.
It was cold now. The wind came to them straight off the snow peaks. Mr Satterthwaite turned up his coat collar and buttoned it tightly under his chin.
It was very cold. Across the water, Ajaccio was still bathed in sunlight, but up here thick grey clouds came drifting across the face of the sun. Mr Satterthwaite ceased to admire the view. He yearned for a steam-heated hotel and a comfortable armchair.
Ahead of them Naomi’s little two-seater drove steadily forward. Up, still up. They were on top of the world now. On either side of them were lower hills, hills sloping down to valleys. They looked straight across to the snow peaks. And the wind came tearing over them, sharp, like a knife. Suddenly Naomi’s car stopped, and she looked back.
‘We’ve arrived,’ she said. ‘At the World’s End. And I don’t think it’s an awfully good day for it.’
They all got out. They had arrived in a tiny village, with half a dozen stone cottages. An imposing name was printed in letters a foot high.
‘Coti Chiaveeri.’
Naomi shrugged her shoulders.
‘That’s its official name, but I prefer to call it the World’s End.’
She walked on a few steps, and Mr Satterthwaite joined her. They were beyond the houses now. The road stopped. As Naomi had said, this was the end, the back of beyond, the beginning of nowhere. Behind them the white ribbon of the road, in front of them—nothing. Only far, far below, the sea . . .
Mr Satterthwaite drew a deep breath.
‘It’s an extraordinary place. One feels that anything might happen here, that one might meet—anyone—’
He stopped, for just in front of them a man was sitting on a boulder, his face turned to the sea. They had not seen him till this moment, and his appearance had the suddenness of a conjuring trick. He might have sprung from the surrounding landscape.
‘I wonder—’ began Mr Satterthwaite.
But at that minute the stranger turned, and Mr Satterthwaite saw his face.
‘Why, Mr Quin! How extraordinary. Miss Carlton Smith, I want to introduce my friend Mr Quin to you. He’s the most unusual fellow. You are, you know. You always turn up in the nick of time—’
He stopped, with the feeling that he had said something awkwardly significant, and yet for the life of him he could not think what it was.
Naomi had shaken hands with Mr Quin in her usual abrupt style.
‘We’re here for a picnic,’ she said. ‘And it seems to me we shall be pretty well frozen to the bone.’
Mr Satterthwaite shivered.
‘Perhaps,’ he said uncertainly, ‘we shall find a sheltered spot?’
‘Which this isn’t,’ agreed Naomi. ‘Still, it’s worth seeing, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, indeed.’ Mr Satterthwaite turned to Mr Quin. ‘Miss Carlton Smith calls this place the World’s End. Rather a good name, eh?’
Mr Quin nodded his head slowly several times.
‘Yes—a very suggestive name. I suppose one only comes once in one’s life to a place like that—a place where one can’t go on any longer.’
‘What do you mean?’ asked Naomi sharply.
He turned to her.
‘Well, usually, there’s a choice, isn’t there? To the right or to the left. Forward or back. Here—there’s the road behind you and in front of you—nothing.’
Naomi stared at him. Suddenly she shivered and began to retrace her steps towards the others. The two men fell in beside her. Mr Quin continued to talk, but his tone was now easily conversational.
‘Is the small car yours, Miss Carlton Smith?’
‘Yes.’
‘You drive yourself? One needs, I think, a good deal of nerve to do that round here. The turns are rather appalling. A moment of inattention, a brake that failed to hold, and—over the edge—down—down—down. It would be—very easily done.’
They had now joined the others. Mr Satterthwaite introduced his friend. He felt a tug at his arm. It was Naomi. She drew him apart from the others.
‘Who is he?’ she demanded fiercely.
Mr Satterthwaite gazed at her in astonishment.
‘Well, I hardly know. I mean, I have known him for some years now—we have run across each other from time to time, but in the sense of knowing actually—’
He stopped. These were futilities that he was uttering, and the girl by his side was not listening. She was standing with her head bent down, her hands clenched by her sides.
‘He knows things,’ she said. ‘He knows things . . . How does he know?’
Mr Satterthwaite had no answer. He could only look at her dumbly, unable to comprehend the storm that shook her.
‘I’m afraid,’ she muttered.
‘Afraid of Mr Quin?’
‘I’m afraid of his eyes. He sees things . . .’
Something cold and wet fell on Mr Satterthwaite’s cheek. He looked up.
‘Why, it’s snowing,’ he exclaimed, in great surprise.
‘A nice day to have chosen for a picnic,’ said Naomi.
She had regained control of herself with an effort.
What was to be done? A babel of suggestions broke out. The snow came down thick and fast. Mr Quin made a suggestion and everyone welcomed it. There was a little stone Cassecroute at the end of the row of houses. There was a stampede towards it.
‘You have your provisions,’ said Mr Quin, ‘and they will probably be able to make you some coffee.’
It was a tiny place, rather dark, for the one little window did little towards lighting it, but from one end came a grateful glow of warmth. An old Corsican woman was just throwing a handful of branches on the fire. It blazed up, and by its light the newcomers realized that others were before them.
Three people were sitting at the end of a bare wooden table. There was something unreal about the
