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causeway wouldn’t be covered.”
    â€œDepends on the tide, of course. But they always say that bathing from Pixy Cove is dangerous if you swim out too far.”
    Patrick was rowing vigorously still. At the same time he was scanning the cliffs attentively.
    Emily Brewster thought suddenly:
    â€œHe’s looking for the Marshall woman. That’s why he wanted to come with me. She hasn’t shown up this morning and he’s wondering what she’s up to. Probably she’s done it on purpose. Just a move in the game—to make him keener.”
    They rounded the jutting point of rock to the south of the little bay named Pixy’s Cove. It was quite a small cove, with rocks dotted fantastically about the beach. It faced nearly northwest and the cliff overhung it a good deal. It was a favourite place for picnic teas. In the morning, when the sun was off, it was not popular and there was seldom anyone there.
    On this occasion, however, there was a figure on the beach.
    Patrick Redfern’s stroke checked and recovered.
    He said in a would-be casual tone:
    â€œHullo, who’s that?”
    Miss Brewster said dryly:
    â€œIt looks like Mrs. Marshall.”
    Patrick Redfern said, as though struck by the idea.
    â€œSo it does.”
    He altered his course, rowing inshore.
    Emily Brewster protested.
    â€œWe don’t want to land here, do we?”
    Patrick Redfern said quickly:
    â€œOh, plenty of time.”
    His eyes looked into hers—something in them, a naïve pleading look rather like that of an importunate dog, silenced Emily Brewster. She thought to herself:
    â€œPoor boy, he’s got it badly. Oh well, it can’t be helped. He’ll get over it in time.”
    The boat was fast approaching the beach.
    Arlena Marshall was lying face downwards on the shingle, her arms outstretched. The white float was drawn up nearby.
    Something was puzzling Emily Brewster. It was as though she was looking at something she knew quite well but which was in one respect quite wrong.
    It was a minute or two before it came to her.
    Arlena Marshall’s attitude was the attitude of a sunbather. So had she lain many a time on the beach by the hotel, her bronzed body outstretched and the green cardboard hat protecting her head and neck.
    But there was no sun on Pixy’s Beach and there would be none for some hours yet. The overhanging cliff protected the beach from the sun in the morning. A vague feeling of apprehension came over Emily Brewster.
    The boat grounded on the shingle. Patrick Redfern called:
    â€œHullo, Arlena.”
    And then Emily Brewster’s foreboding took definite shape. For the recumbent figure did not move or answer.
    Emily saw Patrick Redfern’s face change. He jumped out of the boat and she followed him. They dragged the boat ashore then set off up the beach to where that white figure lay so still and unresponsive near the bottom of the cliff.
    Patrick Redfern got there first but Emily Brewster was close behind him.
    She saw, as one sees in a dream, the bronzed limbs, the white backless bathing dress—the red curl of hair escaping under the jade green hat—saw something else too—the curious unnatural angle of the outspread arms. Felt, in that minute, that this body had not lain down but had been thrown….
    She heard Patrick’s voice—a mere frightened whisper. He knelt down beside that still form—touched the hand—the arm….
    He said in a low shuddering whisper:
    â€œMy God, she’s dead….”
    And then, as he lifted the hat a little, peered at the neck:
    â€œOh, God, she’s been strangled…murdered.”
    VI
    It was one of those moments when time stands still.
    With an odd feeling of unreality Emily Brewster heard herself saying:
    â€œWe musn’t touch anything… Not until the police come.”
    Redfern’s answer came mechanically.
    â€œNo—no—of course not.” And then in a