“—and what I always have felt, M. Poirot, and Mr. Gardener agrees with me, is that snapshots can be very annoying. Unless, that is to say, they are taken among friends. That Mr. Blatt has just no sensitiveness of any kind. He just comes right up to everyone and talks away and takes pictures of you and, as I said to Mr. Gardener, that really is very ill-bred. That’s what I said, Odell, wasn’t it?”

“Yes, darling.”

“That group he took of us all sitting on the beach. Well, that’s all very well, but he should have asked first. As it was, Miss Brewster was just getting up from the beach, and it certainly makes her look a very peculiar shape.”

“I’ll say it does,” said Mr. Gardener with a grin.

“And there’s Mr. Blatt giving round copies to everybody without so much as asking first. He gave one to you, M. Poirot, I noticed.”

Poirot nodded. He said:

“I value that group very much.”

Mrs. Gardener went on:

“And look at his behaviour today—so loud and noisy and common. Why, it just makes me shudder. You ought to have arranged to leave that man at home, M. Poirot.”

Hercule Poirot murmured:

“Alas, Madame, that would have been difficult.”

“I should say it would. That man just pushes his way in anywhere. He’s just not sensitive at all.”

At this moment the discovery of the Pixy’s Cave was hailed from below with loud cries.

The party now drove on, under Hercule Poirot’s directions, to a spot where a short walk from the car down a hillside of heather led to a delightful spot by a small river.

A narrow plank bridge crossed the river and Poirot and her husband induced Mrs. Gardener to cross it to where a delightful heathery spot free from prickly furze looked an ideal spot for a picnic lunch.

Talking volubly about her sensations when crossing on a plank bridge Mrs. Gardener sank down. Suddenly there was a slight outcry.

The others had run across the bridge lightly enough, but Emily Brewster was standing in the middle of the plank, her eyes shut, swaying to and fro.

Poirot and Patrick Redfern rushed to the rescue.

Emily Brewster was gruff and ashamed.

“Thanks, thanks. Sorry. Never was good at crossing running water. Get giddy. Stupid, very.”

Lunch was spread out and the picnic began.