I did not want to leave the Island. I only wanted time to think. I wanted to talk to Jago, to demand an explanation. But not just yet. I wanted a day or two to think clearly about everything, to make an attempt to piece together the evidence I had gathered, to try to stand outside the enormity of those emotions which Jago aroused in me and assess the scene dispassionately. I wanted to discover how deeply involved I was with a man who was unscrupulous and might well be involved in the murder of Philip Carrington.
That was at the heart of the matter. I could understand his passion for the Island and his desire to possess it. To keep it he must either marry me or be rid of me. I wouldn't accept the fact that he didn't love me a little. He could not act as well as that. Perhaps in time he would love me even more than the Island, I promised myself, which showed how obsessed I was by the man, since I was so ready to compromise. But if he really were caught up in the murder of Philip . . . that must make a difference.
I was bemused and bewildered.
If he had hired an assassin to murder Philip what were his intentions towards me? What if he did not love me at all? What if I married him? I saw myself willing everything to him and then what would he do when he had no further use for me? What did I know of Jago? That I loved him. That was all. Is it possible to love a man whom one can suspect of murder? The answer seemed to thunder in my ears: "Yes, yes, yes."
But there was one thing he was unaware of. He thought Silva was dead and Slack talked of her living happy ever after. What did that mean? She must have married the lover of whom she wrote and eloped with him. On the Island they had believed she was dead because the boat had come back empty. But if she still lived then on my death she was the next in succession. Jago did not consider this because like everyone else he thought Silva dead.
Where was Silva?
If only I knew.
"Can 'ee hear the sea now?" That was Slack. "We be nearly there."
We had been climbing steadily uphill while my thoughts had run on and now I could hear the sea. I could feel the fresh air on my face.
"We'm through," said Slack, and we were pushing our way through bushes and now were right out in the open. The wind caught at my hair, which escaped from its pins and streamed down my back.
"There be the house, look," he said. "There be a light in the window."
He took my hand and dragged me forward. As he said, there stood the house. The door was open. Slack went through calling: "Mr. Manton. Mr. Manton. I be here with Miss Ellen."
There was no answer. We had stepped into a small hall and Slack pushed open a door and we entered a room.
I felt my senses reel. There it was . . . the red curtains tied with gold fringe, the open brick fireplace, the rocking chair, the gate-legged table and even the "Storm at Sea" hanging on the wall.
In every detail it was there—the room which had come to me so often in my dreams.
This was a nightmare. It couldn't be real. I had strayed into the dream somewhere. The dungeons, the terrible suspicions about Jago—they were all part of it. It was a new form of the dream. I should wake at any moment.
Slack was looking at me oddly.
"Slack," I stammered, "what is this room . . . ? What is this place?"
He did not seem to understand. He said soothingly: "You'll be all right here. Miss Silva were . . ."
My eyes were fixed on the door. It was that door which had been the center of the dream. It was not the one through which I had come, for there were two doors in this room. The slow moving of that door which had never opened but behind which I had subconsciously known was the reason for my fear.
I saw the door handle slowly turn. I could not take my eyes from it. The door was beginning to open.
This was it—the moment in the dream when the terrible sense of doom had come over me. I was terrified of what the opening of the door would reveal.
. Thoughts flashed in and out of my mind as they do in moments such as that one. It could only have been a matter of a few seconds, but time had slowed down. The fear had come to me . . . just as in the dream, but this was not a dream. I was now face to face with the moment of revelation. The artist! I thought. What has he to do with my life? I scarcely know him. Why should I feel this terrible fear of him?
The door opened. A man was standing on the threshold of the room. It was not the artist though. It was Rollo.
I was trembling with terror, but it was only the dream. Amazement was taking over fear. Rollo! What could Rollo possibly be doing at Blue Rock?
"Ellen!" He smiled. "How good to see you here. How did you come?"
I stammered: "I... I had no idea. ... I thought. . . the artist lived here."
"He's gone to London for a few days. He lent me his place. You look scared out of your wits. Sit down. Let me get you a drink."
"I'm sorry," I said. "I'm so bewildered. I can't think clearly."
"Come and sit down."
Slack was staring at Rollo. I heard him whisper: "Something terrible have happened to Miss Silva."
Rollo had led me to the table and made me sit down in the chair which I had seen so many times in
