“It’s Miss Darnley, I think. She’s got one of those Japanese affairs.”

They rowed up the coast. On their left was the open sea.

Emily Brewster said:

“We ought to have gone the other way round. This way we’ve got the current against us.”

“There’s very little current. I’ve swum out here and not noticed it. Anyway we couldn’t go the other way, the causeway wouldn’t be covered.”

“Depends 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:

“He’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:

“Hullo, who’s that?”

Miss Brewster said dryly:

“It looks like Mrs. Marshall.”

Patrick Redfern said, as though struck by the idea.

“So it does.”

He altered his course, rowing inshore.

Emily Brewster protested.

“We don’t want to land here, do we?”

Patrick Redfern said quickly:

“Oh, 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:

“Poor 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:

“Hullo, Arlena.”

And then Emily Brewster’s foreboding took definite shape. For the recumbent figure did not move or answer.