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them had cameras in their hands. I hurried over to them.
    Köche was squinting through the sights of a ciné camera. Herr Vogel was feverishly winding a new film into position. Mrs. Clandon-Hartley was examining the yacht through a pair of field-glasses slung round her husband’s neck. Mademoiselle Martin was operating a small box camera under her lover’s excited direction. Schimler stood slightly apart, watching Köche work the ciné camera. He looked ill and tired.
    “Lovely, isn’t she?”
    It was Mary Skelton.
    “Yes. I thought your brother was chasing that old Frenchman up the path. I didn’t know what all the fuss was about.”
    “He’s gone to fetch a camera.”
    At this moment her brother appeared holding an expensive Kodak. “All this boyish enthusiasm!” he complained. “Why I should want to take pictures of somebody else’s yacht, I do not know.” Nevertheless, he took two shots of the yacht.
    In his wake, clutching an enormous filmpack reflex of an ancient pattern, trotted Monsieur Duclos. Breathing heavily, he unfolded the hood of the reflex and clambered onto the parapet.
    “Do you think he works with his beard inside that viewfinder or out?” murmured Skelton.
    There was a loud clicking as Monsieur Duclos wound up the shutter of the reflex, a moment’s silence, then a soft crash as he released it. He scrambled off the parapet with a satisfied air.
    “I bet he’s forgotten to put a plate in.”
    “You’ve lost,” said the girl. “Let’s go back down.”
    Major and Mrs. Clandon-Hartley were leaning over the parapet at the top of the steps. He nodded to me.
    “Nice little craft, that. British built, by the look of her. Spent a leave yachting on the Norfolk Broads in ’17. Grand sport. Got to have money to do it like this, though. Ever go to the Broads?”
    “No.”
    “Grand sport. By the way, meant to introduce you to my good lady. This is Mr. Vadassy, my dear.”
    She glanced at me impassively, indifferently; yet I had the impression that she was weighing me. I wished somehow that I had more clothes on. She smiled slightly with one side of her mouth and nodded. I bowed. I had an uncomfortable feeling that any form of verbal greeting would be regarded as an impertinence.
    “We might have a game of Russian billiards later,” put in her husband breezily.
    “Delighted.”
    “Good. See you later.”
    Mrs. Clandon-Hartley nodded curtly.
    It was a dismissal.
    I found the Skeltons lying on the sand under a sunshade at one corner of the beach. They made room for me and I sat down.
    The girl sighed happily. “Say, Mr. Vadassy, did you ever see anything like those Switzers?”
    I followed her gaze. Herr Vogel had mounted his camera on a long steel tripod. Blushing and giggling in front of the lens stood Frau Vogel. As I watched, Vogel operated the delayed action shutter and skipped round the tripod to strike a pose with his arm round his wife. There was a faint whir fromthe camera, the shutter clicked and the Vogels burst into roars of laughter. The dear, dead friend was evidently forgotten.
    Watching these antics with undisguised amusement were the French couple and Köche. The latter glanced across at us to see if we had been watching. He walked over.
    Skelton said: “Do you hire those two to entertain the guests?”
    He grinned. “I’m thinking of asking them to stay on as a permanent attraction.”
    “I get it. Les Deux Switzers. Good, clean fun and a laugh in every line. Straight from their New York success. Swell dressers on and off.”
    Köche looked slightly bewildered, and was about to reply when the air was rent by a shrill call from the terrace above.
    “Al-baire!”
    I looked up round the edge of the sunshade. Madame Köche was leaning over the parapet, her hands cupped round her mouth.
    “Al-baire!”
    Köche did not look up.
    “The voice from the minaret,” he remarked lightly, “calling the faithful to prayer.” With a nod to me he started towards the steps.
    “You