‘Yes. They must get a statement from him. It will establish my alibi.’ He opened his eyes. ‘You’d better tell the empurpled sergeant.’

‘He’s not to be approached at the moment, I fancy,’ said Dikon, who did not care at all for this suggestion.

‘Well, don’t leave it too long. After all it’s of some slight importance since it protects me from a charge of homicide,’ said Gaunt bitterly.

‘Is there anything else I can do?’

‘No. I’m utterly prostrated. I want to be left alone.’

Hoping that this mood would persist, Dikon went outside. There was no one about. He crossed the pumice sweep and wandered up and down the path by the warm lake. Wai-ata-tapu was unusually silent. The familiar morning sounds of housework were not to be heard or the voices of Mrs Claire and Barbara screeching companionably to each other from different rooms. He could see Huia moving about in the dining-room. Presently Smith and Simon walked round the house, Simon discoursing magnificently. Webley came out of the study, unlocked the door of Questing’s room and went in. Dikon was overstimulated and so restless that he was unable to think closely about Questing’s disappearance or indeed about anything. He was conscious that he had been frustrated at the moment of departure upon an emotional journey; he was both dissatisfied and apprehensive.

Presently Barbara came out of the house. She looked about her in desultory fashion and, after a moment, caught sight of him. He waved vigorously. She hesitated and then, with a backward glance, came to meet him.

‘What have you been doing all this time?’ he asked.

‘I don’t know. Nothing. I ought to be seeing about lunch but I can’t settle down.’

‘Nor can I. Couldn’t we sit down for a moment? I’ve been pounding to and fro like a sentry until I feel quite worn out.’

‘I feel I ought to be doing something or another,’ said Barbara. ‘Not just sitting.’

‘Well, perhaps we could march up and down together.’

‘Oh, Dikon,’ Barbara said, ‘what is it that’s waiting for us? Where are we going?’

He had no answer to this and after a moment she said: ‘You don’t think he’s alive, do you?’

‘No.’

‘Do you think somebody killed him?’ She looked into his face. ‘Yes, that is what you think,’ she said.

‘Not for any logical reason. I can’t work it out. I’m like your mother, I can’t go all elaborate over it. I certainly can’t believe in Dr Ackrington’s theory. He’s so hell-bent on making everything fit into the mould of his own idea. Intellectually he’s as obstinate as a mule, it seems to me.’