Norton, of course, knew exactly how the wind lay. He saw possibilities in the Franklin trio. I may say that he started first on Franklin, but drew a complete blank. Franklin is the one type of man who is quite immune from Norton's kind of insidious suggestion. Franklin has a clear-cut, black and white mind, with an exact knowledge of his own feeling — and a complete disregard for outside pressure. Moreover, the great passion of his life is his work. His absorption in it makes him far less vulnerable.

With Judith, Norton was far more successful. He played very cleverly on the theme of useless lives. It was an article of faith with Judith — and the fact that her secret desires were in accordance with it was a fact that she ignored stridently while Norton knew it to be an ally. He was very clever about it — taking himself the opposite point of view, gently ridiculing the idea that she would ever have the nerve to do such a decisive action. "It is the kind of thing that all young people say

— but never do!" Such an old cheap jibe — and how often it works, Hastings! So vulnerable they are, these children! So ready, though they do not recognize it that way, to take a dare!

And with the useless Barbara out of the way, then the road is clear for Franklin and Judith. That was never said — that was never allowed to come into the open. It was stressed that the personal angle had nothing to do with it — nothing at all. For if Judith once recognized that it had, she would have reacted violently. But with a murder addict so far advanced as Norton, one iron in the fire is not enough. He sees opportunities for pleasure everywhere. He found one in the Luttrells. Cast your mind back, Hastings. Remember the very first evening you played bridge. Norton's remarks to you afterwards, uttered so loud that you were afraid Colonel Luttrell would hear. Of course! Norton meant him to hear! He never lost an opportunity of underlining it — rubbing it in. And finally his efforts culminated in success. It happened under your nose, Hastings, and you never saw how it was done. The foundations were already laid — the increasing sense of a burden borne, of shame at the figure he cut in front of other men, in a deep growing resentment against his wife.

Remember exactly what happened. Norton says he is thirsty. (Did he know Mrs. Luttrell is in the house and will come upon the scene?) The Colonel reacts immediately as the open-handed host which he is by nature. He offers drinks. He goes to get them. You are all sitting outside the window. His wife arrives — there is the inevitable scene — which he knows is being overheard. He comes out. It might have been glossed over by a good pretence — Boyd Carrington could have done it well. (He has a certain amount of worldly wisdom and a tactful manner — though otherwise he is one of the most pompous and boring individuals that I have ever come across! Just the sort of man you would admire!) You yourself could have acquitted yourself not too badly. But Norton rushes into speech, heavily, fatuously, underlining tact until it screams to heaven and makes things much worse. He babbles of bridge (more recalled humiliations), talks aimlessly of shooting accidents. And prompt on his cue, just as Norton intended, that old woolly-headed ass Boyd Carrington comes out with his story of an Irish batman who shot his brother — a story, Hastings, that Norton told to Boyd Carrington, knowing quite well that the old fool would bring it out as his own whenever suitably prompted. You see, the supreme suggestion will not come from Norton. Mon Dieu, non!