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The room became an impromptu court of law.
    The judge said:
    ‘Now then, Rogers, we must get to the bottom of this. Who is this Mr Owen?’
    Rogers stared.
    ‘He owns this place, sir.’
    ‘I am aware of that fact. What I want you to tell me is what you yourself know about the man.’
    Rogers shook his head.
    ‘I can’t say, sir. You see, I’ve never seen him.’
    There was a faint stir in the room.
    General Macarthur said:
    ‘You’ve never seen him? What d’yer mean?’
    ‘We’ve only been here just under a week, sir, my wifeand I. We were engaged by letter, through an agency. The Regina Agency in Plymouth.’
    Blore nodded.
    ‘Old established firm,’ he volunteered.
    Wargrave said:
    ‘Have you got that letter?’
    ‘The letter engaging us? No, sir. I didn’t keep it.’
    ‘Go on with your story. You were engaged, as you say, by letter.’
    ‘Yes, sir. We were to arrive on a certain day. We did. Everything was in order here. Plenty of food in stock and everything very nice. Just needed dusting and that.’
    ‘What next?’
    ‘Nothing, sir. We got orders—by letter again—to prepare the rooms for a house-party, and then yesterday by the afternoon post I got another letter from Mr Owen. It said he and Mrs Owen were detained and to do the best we could, and it gave the instructions about dinner and coffee and putting on the gramophone record.’
    The judge said sharply:
    ‘Surely you’ve got that letter?’
    ‘Yes, sir, I’ve got it here.’
    He produced it from a pocket. The judge took it.
    ‘H’m,’ he said. ‘Headed Ritz Hotel and typewritten.’
    With a quick movement Blore was beside him.
    He said:
    ‘If you’ll just let me have a look.’
    He twitched it out of the other’s hand, and ran his eye over it. He murmured:
    ‘Coronation machine. Quite new—no defects. Ensign paper—the most widely used make. You won’t get anything out of that. Might be fingerprints, but I doubt it.’
    Wargrave stared at him with sudden attention.
    Anthony Marston was standing beside Blore looking over his shoulder. He said:
    ‘Got some fancy Christian names, hasn’t he? Ulick Norman Owen. Quite a mouthful.’
    The old judge said with a slight start:
    ‘I am obliged to you, Mr Marston. You have drawn my attention to a curious and suggestive point.’
    He looked round at the others and thrusting his neck forward like an angry tortoise, he said:
    ‘I think the time has come for us all to pool our information. It would be well, I think, for everybody to come forward with all the information they have regarding the owner of this house.’ He paused and then went on: ‘We are all his guests. I think it would be profitable if each one of us were to explain exactly how that came about.’
    There was a moment’s pause and then Emily Brent spoke with decision.
    ‘There’s something very peculiar about all this,’ she said. ‘I received a letter with a signature that was not very easy to read. It purported to be from a woman I had met at a certain summer resort two or three years ago. I took the name to be either Ogden or Oliver. I am acquainted with a Mrs Oliver and also with a Miss Ogden. I am quite certain that I have never met, or become friendly with any one of the name of Owen.’
    Mr Justice Wargrave said:
    ‘You have that letter, Miss Brent?’
    ‘Yes, I will fetch it for you.’
    She went away and returned a minute later with the letter.
    The judge read it. He said:
    ‘I begin to understand…Miss Claythorne?’
    Vera explained the circumstances of her secretarial engagement.
    The judge said:
    ‘Marston?’
    Anthony said:
    ‘Got a wire. From a pal of mine. Badger Berkeley. Surprised me at the time because I had an idea the old horse had gone to Norway. Told me to roll up here.’
    Again Wargrave nodded. He said:
    ‘Dr Armstrong?’
    ‘I was called in professionally.’
    ‘I see. You had no previous acquaintanceship with the family?’
    ‘No. A colleague of mine was mentioned in the