Colonel Weston was poring over the hotel register.

He read aloud:

‘Major and Mrs Cowan,

Miss Pamela Cowan,

Master Robert Cowan,

Master Evan Cowan,

Rydal’s Mount, Leatherhead.

Mr and Mrs Masterman,

Mr Edward Masterman,

Miss Jennifer Masterman,

Mr Roy Masterman,

Master Frederick Masterman,

5 Marlborough Avenue, London, N.W.

Mr and Mrs Gardener,

New York.

Mr and Mrs Redfern, 

Crossgates, Seldon, Princes Risborough.

Major Barry,

18 Cardon St., St James, London, S.W.1.

Mr Horace Blatt,

5 Pickersgill Street, London, E.C.2.

M. Hercule Poirot,

Whitehaven Mansions, London, W.1.

Miss Rosamund Darnley,

8 Cardigan Court, W.1.

Miss Emily Brewster,

Southgates, Sunbury-on-Thames.

Rev. Stephen Lane,

London.

Captain and Mrs Marshall,

Miss Linda Marshall,

73 Upcott Mansions, London, S.W.7.’

He stopped.

Inspector Colgate said:

‘I think, sir, that we can wash out the first two entries. Mrs Castle tells me that the Mastermans and the Cowans come here regularly every summer with their children. This morning they went off on an all-day excursion sailing, taking lunch with them. They left just after nine o’clock. A man called Andrew Baston took them. We can check up from him, but I think we can put them right out of it.’ 

Weston nodded.

‘I agree. Let’s eliminate everyone we can. Can you give us a pointer on any of the rest of them, Poirot?’

Poirot said:

‘Superficially, that is easy. The Gardeners are a middle-aged married couple, pleasant, travelled. All the talking is done by the lady. The husband is acquiescent. He plays tennis and golf and has a form of dry humour that is attractive when one gets him to oneself.’

‘Sounds quite O.K.’

‘Next-the Redferns. Mr Redfern is young, attractive to women, a magnificent swimmer, a good tennis player and accomplished dancer. His wife I have already spoken of to you. She is quiet, pretty in a washed-out way. She is, I think, devoted to her husband. She has something that Arlena Marshall did not have.’

‘What is that?’

‘Brains.’

Inspector Colgate sighed. He said:

‘Brains don’t count for much when it comes to an infatuation, sir.’

‘Perhaps not. And yet I do truly believe that in spite of his infatuation for Mrs Marshall, Patrick Redfern really cares for his wife.’

‘That may be, sir. It wouldn’t be the first time that’s happened.’ 

Poirot murmured.

‘That is the pity of it! It is always the thing women find hardest to believe.’

He went on:

‘Major Barry. Retired Indian Army. An admirer of women. A teller of long and boring stories.’

Inspector Colgate sighed.

‘You needn’t go on. I’ve met a few, sir.’

‘Mr Horace Blatt. He is, apparently, a rich man. He talks a good deal-about Mr Blatt. He wants to be everybody’s friend. It is sad. For nobody likes him very much. And there is something else. Mr Blatt last night asked me a good many questions. Mr Blatt was uneasy. Yes, there is something not quite right about Mr Blatt.’

He paused and went on with a change of voice:

‘Next comes Miss Rosamund Darnley. Her business name is Rose Mond Ltd. She is a celebrated dressmaker. What can I say of her? She has brains and charm and chic. She is very pleasing to look at.’ He paused and added. ‘And she is a very old friend of Captain Marshall’s.’

Weston sat up in his chair.

‘Oh, she is, is she?’

‘Yes. They had not met for some years.’

Weston asked:

‘Did she know he was going to be down here?’ 

‘She says not.’

Poirot paused and then went on.

‘Who comes next? Miss Brewster. I find her just a little alarming.’ He shook his head. ‘She has a voice like a man’s. She is gruff and what you call hearty. She rows boats and has a handicap of four at golf.’ He paused. ‘I think, though, that she has a good heart.’

Weston said:

‘That leaves only the Reverend Stephen Lane. Who’s the Reverend Stephen Lane?’

‘I can only tell you one thing. He is a man who is in a condition of great nervous tension. Also he is, I think, a fanatic.’

Inspector Colgate said:

‘Oh, that kind of person.’

Weston said:

‘And that’s the lot!’ He looked at Poirot. ‘You seem very lost in thought, my friend?’

Poirot said:

‘Yes. Because, you see, when Mrs Marshall went off this morning and asked me not to tell anyone I had seen her. I jumped at once in my own mind to a certain conclusion. I thought that her friendship with Patrick Redfern had made trouble between her and her husband. I thought that she was going to meet Patrick Redfern somewhere, and that she did not want her husband to know where she was.’ 

He paused.

‘But that, you see, was where I was wrong. Because, although her husband appeared almost immediately on the beach and asked if I had seen her, Patrick Redfern arrived also-and was most patently and obviously looking for her! And therefore, my friends, I am asking myself,who was it that Arlena Marshall went off to meet?’

Inspector Colgate said:

‘That fits in withmy idea. A man from London or somewhere.’

Hercule Poirot shook his head. He said:

‘But, my friend, according to your theory, Arlena Marshall had broken with this mythical man. Why, then, should she take such trouble and pains to meet him?’

Inspector Colgate shook his head. He said:

‘Who doyou think it was?’

‘That is just what I cannot imagine. We have just read through the list of hotel guests. They are all middle-aged-dull. Which of them would Arlena Marshall prefer to Patrick Redfern? No, that is impossible. And yet, all the same, shedid go to meet someone-and that someone was not Patrick Redfern.’

Weston murmured:

‘You don’t think she just went off by herself?’

Poirot shook his head. 

‘Mon cher,’ he said. ‘It is very evident that you never met the dead woman. Somebody once wrote a learned treatise on the difference that solitary confinement would mean to Beau Brummel or to a man like Newton. Arlena Marshall, my dear friend, would practically not exist in solitude. She only lived in the light of a man’s admiration. No, Arlena Marshall went to meetsomeone this morning.Who was it? ’

Colonel Weston sighed, shook his head and said:

‘Well, we can go into theories later. Got to get through these interviews now. Got to get it down in black and white where everyone was. I suppose we’d better see the Marshall girl now. She might be able to tell us something useful.’

Linda Marshall came into the room clumsily, knocking against the doorpost. She was breathing quickly and the pupils of her eyes were dilated. She looked like a startled young colt. Colonel Weston felt a kindly impulse towards her.

He thought:

‘Poor kid-she’s nothing but a kid after all. This must have been a pretty bad shock to her.’

He drew up a chair and said in a reassuring voice. 

‘Sorry to put you through this, Miss-Linda, isn’t it?’

‘Yes, Linda.’

Her voice had that indrawn breathy quality that is often characteristic of schoolgirls. Her hands rested helplessly on the table in front of him-pathetic hands, big and red, with large bones and long wrists. Weston thought:

‘A kid oughtn’t to be mixed up in this sort of thing.’

He said reassuringly.

‘There’s nothing very alarming about all this. We just want you to tell us anything you know that might be useful, that’s all.’

Linda said:

‘You mean-about Arlena?’

‘Yes. Did you see her this morning at all?’

The girl shook her head.

‘No. Arlena always gets down rather late. She has breakfast in bed.’

Hercule Poirot said:

‘And you, Mademoiselle?’

‘Oh, I get up. Breakfast in bed’s sostuffy.’

Weston said:

‘Will you tell us what you did this morning?’

‘Well, I had a bathe first and then breakfast, and then I went with Mrs Redfern to Gull Cove.’ 

Weston said:

‘What time did you and Mrs Redfern start?’

‘She said she’d be waiting for me in the hall at half-past ten. I was afraid I was going to be late, but it was all right. We started off at about three minutes to the half-hour.’

Poirot said:

‘And what did you do at Gull Cove?’

‘Oh, I oiled myself and sunbathed and Mrs Redfern sketched. Then, later, I went into the sea and Christine went back to the hotel to get changed for tennis.’

Weston said, keeping his voice quite casual:

‘Do you remember what time that was?’

‘When Mrs Redfern went back to the hotel? Quarter to twelve.’

‘Sure of that time-quarter to twelve?’

Linda, opening her eyes wide, said:

‘Ohyes. I looked at my watch.’

‘The watch you have on now?’

Linda glanced down at her wrist.

‘Yes.’

Weston said:

‘Mind if I see?’

She held out her wrist. He compared the watch with his own and with the hotel clock on the wall.

He said, smiling: 

‘Correct to a second. And after that you had a bathe?’

‘Yes.’

‘And you got back to the hotel-when?’

‘Just about one o’clock. And-and then-I heard-about Arlena…’

Her voice changed.

Colonel Weston said:

‘Did you-er-get on with your stepmother all right?’

She looked at him for a minute without replying. Then she said:

‘Oh yes.’

Poirot asked:

‘Did you like her, Mademoiselle?’

Linda said again:

‘Oh yes.’ She added: ‘Arlena was quite kind to me.’

Weston said with rather uneasy facetiousness.

‘Not the cruel stepmother, eh?’

Linda shook her head without smiling.

Weston said:

‘That’s good. That’s good. Sometimes, you know, there’s a bit of difficulty in families-jealousy-all that. Girl and her father great pals and then she resents it a bit when he’s all wrapped up in the new wife. You didn’t feel like that, eh?’

Linda stared at him. She said with obvious sincerity: 

‘Oh no.’

Weston said: