In the evening, he came to the ferry. He could have been here long ago.The truth is, he procrastinates as long as possible. Luncheons with some of his friends at "Red Wharf" first; indiscreet, rambling conversations, gossip about friends who both knew each other—all it meant was that inwardly he recoiled from what he had to do. forward.His friends invited him to stay for tea, and he accepted.Yet at last the moment came when he knew he could put it off no longer. His hired car was waiting.He said goodbye and drove seven miles along the crowded coastal road, then turned inland and followed a wooded path to a small pier on a stone embankment by the river.

His chauffeur yanked a big bell to summon a distant ferry. "You don't want me to wait for you, sir?" "No," said Arthur Calgary. "I've ordered a car to pick me up on the other side within an hour--take me to Drymouth." Drivers receive fare and tips."The ferry is coming, sir," he said, gazing at the darkened river. He said good night softly, and the car turned around and climbed up the hill.Arthur Calgary was left alone to wait by the quayside, with nothing but his thoughts and his apprehensions about what was ahead of him, and the landscape was wild, he thought, as if one were in the Lake District of Scotland, Stay away from people.However, just a few miles away, there are hotels, shops, cocktail bars and the crowds of "Red Wharf".Again he thought of the uncommon contrast of the English landscape.

He heard the soft paddle of the oars of the ferry as it approached the little pier.Arthur Calgary walked down the slope of the embankment, and got into the boat as the gondolier's gaff rod held the boat steady. He was an old man, and it gave Calgary a novel impression that he and his ship belonged, one and inseparable. When the hull pulled away from the shore, a small gust of cold wind blew from the sea. "It's chilly tonight," said the boatman. Calgary responded gracefully.He further agreed that it was colder than yesterday. He was aware, or thought he was, of the veiled curiosity in the boatman's eyes.A stranger came.And a stranger after the tourist season is over.Furthermore, the stranger crossed the river at an unusual time—

When it was too late to have afternoon tea in the restaurant by the pier on the other side.He had no luggage so it could not be that he was going to spend the night on the other side—well, thought Calgary, did he really come so late?Was it really because, subconsciously, he'd been putting off this moment?Put off as long as possible what he has to do?Crossing the Rubicon (meaning "make a big decision")—the river...the river...his mind returned to the other river—the Thames. He hadn't seen it then—did it happen yesterday?Then he turned around and looked at the man sitting opposite him across the table again.Those thoughtful eyes with a look he couldn't understand.A reserved look, something that was thinking in my heart but didn't express it...

"I think," he thought, "they've probably learned never to show what's on their minds." The whole thing gets pretty scary when it comes to getting started.He had to do what he had to - and - forget! When he remembered the conversation yesterday, his brows frowned.That scary, calm, noncommittal voice said: "You are quite determined about your course of action, Dr. Calgary?" He replied vehemently: "What else can I do? Of course you understand this, right? You must agree? This is something I can't back down from." Yet he did not understand the retracted look in those gray eyes.

"It's got to take into account everything that's involved -- from all angles." "Of course there's only one angle from the point of view of justice?" He said vehemently, thinking for a moment that this was simply a base hint that he was going to cover the matter up. "On the one hand, yes. But it's not just that, you know. Not just--let's just say--justice?" "I don't agree. Think about family." The other said quickly: "Indeed—oh, yes—indeed. I was thinking of them." That seemed like nonsense to Calgary!Because if you think of them—

However, the other party spoke immediately, fearing that the voice of the person did not change. "That is entirely up to you, Dr. Calgary. Of course, you must do it exactly as you feel compelled to do it." The ferry landed on the beach.He has crossed the Rubicon. Said the boatman in his soft western accent: "Fourpence, sir, or are you going home?" "No," Calgary said. "There will be no return trip." (What an ominous sentence that sounds!) He paid.Then ask: "Do you know a house called Sunny Point?" The curious look immediately no longer concealed.The interest in the old man's eyes leaped eagerly.

"Well, of course. Over there, go up on your right--you can see it through the trees. You go up the hill, go up the road on the right, and take the new road in the construction area. Road. The last house—the last one." "thanks." "You said Sunny Point, sir? Mrs. Argyle—" "Yes, yes—" Calgary interrupted him.He doesn't want to talk about it. "'Yang Cape'." The boatman's lips slowly twisted into a rather weird smile.He suddenly looked like the cunning faun from Roman mythology. "She called the house that name--during the war. It was a new house, of course, just built--no name yet. But the land it was built on--a lot of trees — 'Snake Point,' yes! But 'Snake Point' won't work for her--can't be the name of her house. Call it Sunny Point, she. But we all call it 'Snake Point.' .”

Calgary thanked him abruptly, said good night, and started up the hill.Everyone seemed to be in his own home, but he had a hallucination that unseen eyes were gazing out of some of the rooms through the windows; those eyes were watching him, knowing where he was going.Said to each other: "He is going to 'Snake Point'..." "Snake Point".What a creepy name... sharper than the fangs of vipers... He stopped his thoughts abruptly.He had to concentrate and make up his mind what he was going to say... Calgary came to the end of a nice new road lined with nice new houses, each with an eighth-acre garden; rock-wall plants.Various chrysanthemums, roses, lyres, and geraniums, the owner of each house shows his or her unique gardening taste.

At the end of the road is a large iron gate with the words 'Yang Cape' in Gothic script.He opened the iron gate and went in, walking down the short driveway.The house was just ahead of him, a well-built, featureless modern house with gables and a porch.It might stand in any upper-class suburb, or any new development.In Calgary's opinion, it did not match the scenery around it.Because the surrounding scenery is magnificent.At this headland the river makes a sharp turn, almost returning to its original flow.On the opposite side, the wooded hills protrude; upstream to the left is another river meander, and far away is a pasture and orchard.

Calgary looked up and down a stretch of the river.A castle should be built here, he thought, an impossible, ridiculous fairy tale, a castle!Kind of like a castle made of gingerbread bread and icing sugar.In its place is a house of good taste, restraint, moderation, lots of money and no imagination. This, of course, cannot be blamed on the Argyle family.They just bought the house, they didn't build it.However, they, or one of them (Mrs. Argyle?) picked it up... He said to himself: "You can't delay any longer..." and pressed the electric bell by the door. He stood there, waiting.After a suitable time, he pressed the bell again. He didn't hear any footsteps inside, but suddenly, the door swung open. Startled, he took a step back.To his already overactive imagination, it seemed that Tragedy herself was standing in his way.A young face; it is true that there is a tragic essence in its youthful profundity, and the mask of tragedy should always be the mask of youth... Helplessness, fate, and doom are gradually approaching... from the future... He regained his composure and thought rationally, "Irish type." Deep blue eyes, shadows all around, black upturned hair, skull and cheekbones a sad beauty— The girl stood there, young, alert and hostile. she says: "What is it? What do you want?" He answered clichédly. "Is Mr. Argyle there?" "Yes. But he doesn't see anybody. I mean, somebody he doesn't know. He doesn't know you, does he?" "No. He doesn't know me, but—" She starts to close the door. "Then you'd better write..." "I'm sorry, but I want to see him very much. Are you—Miss Argyle?" She reluctantly admits. "I'm Hester Argyle, yes. But my father is missing—not by appointment. You'd better write." "I came all the way..." She was unmoved. "That's what they all say. But I think it's finally stopped," she went on reproachfully. "You're a reporter, I suppose?" "No, no, absolutely not." She looked at him suspiciously, as if she didn't believe it: "Well, so what are you up to?" Behind her, some distance down the hall, he saw another face.A flat, mediocre face.To describe it, he would have called it a face like a pancake, the face of a middle-aged woman with sallow curls sticking to her head like a ball of putty.Like a vigilant dragon, she circled and waited there. "It's about your brother, Miss Argyle." Hester Argyle took a sharp breath, and said in disbelief, "Michael?" "No, your brother Jack." She broke out suddenly: "I knew it! I knew you were here because of Jack! Why can't you let us be peaceful? It's all over and over. Why continue?" "You can never really say anything is over." "But it's over! Jack's dead. Why can't you just let him go? It's all over. If you're not a reporter, then I suppose you're a doctor, or a psychologist, or Something. Go away, please. My father can't be bothered. He's busy." She starts to close the door.In a hurry, Calgary took the action he should have taken long ago, drew a letter from his pocket, and handed it to her hastily. "I have here a letter—from Mr. Marshall." She was taken aback.Her fingers held the envelope hesitantly.She said anxiously: "Mr. Marshall—London?" At this time, the middle-aged woman who had been lurking in the hall suddenly came to join her camp.She gazed suspiciously at Calgary, and he thought of foreign convents.Of course, this should be the face of Sister Zhang!It required a white crepe hood or whatever you call it, tightly wrapped around the face, and a black nun's robe and veil.It's a face, not religiously-focused, but a face that peers suspiciously at you through a small gap in a heavy door before begrudgingly letting you in and leading you into the drawing room Go, or meet the face of the lay nun of the Prioress. She said: "Mr. Marshall called you?" She said a word as if she was accusing him. Hester was staring down at the envelope in his hand.Then, without a word, she turned and ran up the stairs. Calgary stayed at the door, enduring the accusations and suspicious eyes of the dragon-like lay nuns. He tried to find something to say, but couldn't think of a word.Therefore, he discreetly kept silent. Immediately, Hester's calm and indifferent voice floated towards them from upstairs. "Father said he wanted him to come up." The man watching him moved away somewhat reluctantly.Her skeptical expression didn't change.He passed her, laid his hat on a chair, and ascended the stairs to where Hester stood waiting for him. Inside the house, he faintly noticed a health care smell.It could almost be an expensive nursing home, he thought. Hester led him down the passage and down the three steps.Then she pushed open a door and gestured for him to enter.She followed him in, closing the door behind her. This was a study, Calgary looked up with pleasure, the atmosphere of this room was quite different from that of the rest of the house.This is a room where a man lives, where he works and rests.The walls are lined with books, and the chairs are big and worn, but comfortable.The desks were littered with cheerful papers, and books lay here and there on several tables.He caught a brief glimpse of a young woman, a rather attractive young woman, going out the other door on the opposite side.Then his attention was taken by the man standing up to greet him, the letter open in his hand. Calgary's first impression of Leo Argyle was that he was so thin, so transparent, almost non-existent.The ghost of a man!When he spoke, his voice was scary, though lacking in magnetism. "Dr. Calgary?" he said. "Sit, sit." Calgary sat down.He accepts a cigarette.His master sat down opposite him, and everything happened without haste, as if he was in a world where time meant very little.Leo Argyle spoke with a gentle smile on his face, tapping the letter with his bloodless fingertips. "Mr. Marshall wrote that you had something important to say to us, though he didn't specify what it was." His smile deepened and he added: "Lawyers are always very careful not to make any promises, aren't they?" Calgary was a little surprised to find that the man facing him was a happy man.Not the usual jovial, ardent joy—but a sort of ghostly but contented withdrawn joy of his own.This was a man who was content that the outside world couldn't touch him, and he didn't know why he should be surprised—but he was. Calgary said: "It's great that you are willing to meet me." This is just a mechanical opening sentence. "I think it's better to come in person than to write." He paused—and then said suddenly agitatedly, "It's—hard—" "Take it easy." Leo Argyll remains polite and distant. He leaned forward; he clearly wanted to help in his gentle way. "Since you have brought this letter from Marshall, I expect your visit must have something to do with my unfortunate boy Jack." All the words Calgary had carefully prepared deserted him.Here he sat, stuttering again in the face of the astonishing truth he had to say. "It's extremely rare..." There was a silence, then Leo said cautiously: "If that helps you - we all know Jack very well - is hardly a normal man. Nothing you have to say is likely to surprise us. Such a terrible tragedy, I've become completely convinced that Jack is not He should be held accountable for his actions." "Of course he shouldn't be responsible." It was Hester, and Calgary was startled by her words.For a moment he forgot she was there.She sat on the arm of a chair behind his left shoulder.When he turned his head, she leaned eagerly closer to him. "Jack has always been scary," she confessed. "He's just the same as when he was a kid—I mean, when he loses his temper. Grabs whatever he can find and just—hits you..." "Hester--Hester--my dear." Argyle's voice was distressed. The girl flew a hand to her lips in surprise.She blushed and spoke with a sudden youthful awkwardness. "Sorry," she said. "I didn't mean--I forgot--I shouldn't have said that--now he's--I mean, it's all over now, and... and..." "It's over and over," Argyle said. "That's all in the past. I try—we all try—to think that the kid should be treated as a patient. One of the Lady's misfit children. That's the best description, I think. ’ He looked at Calgary. "Do you agree?" "No!" said Calgary. There was a silence.A sharp no surprised both of his listeners. The word "no" almost rushed out with explosive force.He tried to slow its potency, saying awkwardly: "I'm sorry. You know, you don't understand." "Oh!" Argyle seemed to be thinking.Then he turned to his daughter. "Hester, I think maybe you'd better go away—" "I'm not leaving! I've got to hear--know what's going on." "It can be unpleasant to—" Hester cried impatiently: "What does it matter what other horrible things Jack does? It's all over." Calgary spoke quickly. "Trust me—it's not a matter of your brother doing something—quite the opposite." "I do not understand--" The door at the far end of the room opened, and the young woman whom Calgary had glimpsed came back into the room.Now she wears a going coat and carries a small suitcase. She talks to Argyle. "I'm leaving. Anything else?" Argyle hesitated (he always hesitated, Calgary thought), and then he put his hand on her arm and drew her forward. "Sit down, Gwenda," he said. "This is—er—Dr. Calgary. This is Miss Fern, who is—she is—" He paused again, hesitantly. "She has been my secretary for several years," he went on: "Dr. Calgary came to tell us something--or--asked us--about Jack--" "To tell you something," put in Calgary. "And even though you don't know it, you're making it harder for me every moment." They all looked at him with a little surprise, yet in Gwenda Fern's eyes he saw a gleam of understanding.As if for a moment he and she were allied, as if she said, "Yes—I know how difficult the Argyle family can be." She was an attractive young woman, he thought, though not too young—perhaps thirty-seven or eight.Plump and beautiful figure, black hair and black eyes, energetic and healthy breath.She comes across as competent and intelligent. Argyle said dryly: "I have no idea that you're being embarrassed, Dr. Calgary. Of course it wasn't my intention. If you just said 'Yes, I know. Forgive what I just said.' But you—and the daughter—keep insisting that it's over—it's over—it's over. It's not over. Who said: 'Nothing is over until—'"" 'Until it's rightly settled,'" Miss Fern finished for him. "Kipling (British writer who won the 1907 Nobel Prize for Literature)." She nodded encouragingly at him.He is grateful to her. "But I'll get to the point," continued Calgary. "When you've heard what I have to say, you'll understand my—my embarrassment. Or rather, my distress. First, I must mention something about myself. I'm a geophysicist , part of a recent Antarctic expedition. I just came back to England a few weeks ago." "Hayes Bentley Expedition?" Gwenda asked. He turned to her gratefully. "Yes, it's the Hayes Bentley Expedition, and I'm telling you this to illustrate my background and also to illustrate that I was out of touch with—with current affairs for about two years." She goes on to help him: "You mean—something like a murder trial?" "Yes, Miss Fern, that's exactly what I meant." He turned to Argyle. "Forgive me if this is distressing, but I must check with you some times and dates. On the ninth of November, the year before, at about six o'clock in the evening, your son, Jack Argyle, was here , to interview his mother, Mrs. Argyle." "My wife, yes." "He told her he was in trouble and needed money. It's happened many times before," Leo sighed. "Mrs Argyle refused. He became rough, abusive, threatening. Eventually he stormed out the door, yelling that he would be back and she had to 'get your money'. He said 'You don't want me in Prison?' And she replied, 'I'm beginning to believe that might be best for you.'" Leo Argyle shifted uneasily. "My wife and I talked it over. We—were very unhappy with the kid. We tried to save him over and over again, trying to get him back. It seemed to us that maybe the shock of the sentence—the training in the prison—" His words fade away. "But go ahead." Calgary continued: "Later that evening, your wife was killed. Knocked down with pokers. Your son's fingerprints were left on the pokers, and a large sum of money that your wife had put in a large table drawer earlier was missing. Police at 'Dry Mouth' caught your son. Found the money on him, mostly five-pound notes, one of which had a name and address on it that the bank recognized as the payment to Mrs Argyle that morning. He's indicted and put on trial," Calgary paused. "The verdict is premeditated murder." It was said—the terrible word.Murder...not a reverberating word, a stifling word, a word sucked in by curtains, books, carpets... The words themselves may be suppressed - but not the action the words represent... "I understand from Mr. Marshall, the defense attorney, that your son protested his innocence at the time of his arrest, and his manner was clear, not to mention full of confidence. He insisted that he was between seven and seven at the time of the police presumed murder. Between thirty minutes there was a perfect alibi. During that time, Jack Argyle said, he was hitchhiking to Dry Mouth, about a mile from where he was just before seven o'clock. Outside the road, he picked up a ride from the main road from 'Hongming' to 'Gankou'. He didn't know the model of the car (it was dark at the time) but he knew it was a black or dark blue big car. The car was driven by a middle-aged man. All efforts to track down the car and the driver were exhausted, but without confirmation from his confession, the lawyer himself was very convinced that the story was fabricated by the boy in a hurry, and that It's not very clever..." "The main line of defense at trial was to try to corroborate the testimony of Jack Argyle's consistently mentally unstable psychiatrist. The judge's criticism of this testimony was a bit harsh and summed up completely against the accused. Jack Argyle was sentenced to life imprisonment. He died in prison of pneumonia six months after commencing his sentence." Calgary stopped.Three pairs of eyes were fixed on him.Interest and close attention are in the eyes of Guan Dan, doubts are still in Hester's eyes.Leo Argyll's eyes were blank. Calgary said, "You're going to confirm that the facts I've stated are correct?" "You're absolutely right," Leo said, "though I still don't see why it's necessary to repeat these painful facts that we're all trying to forget." "Forgive me. I had to. You don't object to the sentence, I suppose?" "I admit the facts are as you say - that is, if you don't go into the background, it's murder, bluntly. But if you go into the background, there's a lot to say The child was mentally unstable, although unfortunately legally it was not. The Mark Norton regulations were narrow and unsatisfactory. I assure you, Dr. Calgary, that Rachel—I mean, my dead wife would Another one who forgives the unfortunate child for his recklessness. She is a very open and humane woman with a deep understanding of psychological factors. She does not blame." "She had no idea how scary Jack would be," Hester said. "He's always been—he just can't seem to control himself." "So all of you," said Calgary slowly, "without a doubt? I mean, without a doubt of his guilt." Hester agrees. "How can we doubt it? Of course he's guilty." Not really guilty," Leo objected. "I don't like that word. " "And it's the wrong word," Calgary said, taking a deep breath. "Jack Argyle is—innocent!"