“You were, darling.”

“Ha!” said Miss Brewster, breaking in explosively. “What a thrill, eh, M. Poirot?”

Hercule Poirot raised his hands in deprecation. But it was no more than a polite gesture. Mrs. Gardener flowed smoothly on.

“You see, M. Poirot, I’d heard a lot about you from Cornelia Robson who was at Badenhof. Mr. Gardener and I were at Badenhof in May. And of course Cornelia told us all about that business in Egypt when Linnet Ridgeway was killed. She said you were wonderful and I’ve always been simply crazy to meet you, haven’t I, Odell?”

“Yes, darling.”

“And then Miss Darnley, too. I get a lot of my things at Rose Mond’s and of course she is Rose Mond, isn’t she? I think her clothes are ever so clever. Such a marvellous line. That dress I had on last night was one of hers. She’s just a lovely woman in every way, I think.”

From beyond Miss Brewster, Major Barry, who had been sitting with protuberant eyes glued to the bathers, grunted out:

“Distinguished lookin’ gal!”

Mrs. Gardener clacked her needles.

“I’ve just got to confess one thing, M. Poirot. It gave me a kind of a turn meeting you here—not that I wasn’t just thrilled to meet you, because I was. Mr. Gardener knows that. But it just came to me that you might be here—well, professionally. You know what I mean? Well, I’m just terribly sensitive, as Mr. Gardener will tell you, and I just couldn’t bear it if I was to be mixed up in crime of any kind. You see—”

Mr. Gardener cleared his throat. He said:

“You see, M. Poirot, Mrs. Gardener is very sensitive.”

The hands of Hercule Poirot shot into the air.

“But let me assure you, Madame, that I am here simply in the same way that you are here yourselves—to enjoy myself—to spend the holiday. I do not think of crime even.”

Miss Brewster said again, giving her short gruff bark:

“No bodies on Smugglers’ Island.”

Hercule Poirot said:

“Ah! but that, it is not strictly true.” He pointed downward. “Regard them there, lying out in rows. What are they? They are not men and women. There is nothing personal about them. They are just—bodies!”

Major Barry said appreciatively:

“Good-looking fillies, some of ’em. Bit on the thin side, perhaps.”

Poirot cried:

“Yes, but what appeal is there? What mystery? I, I am old, of the old school, When I was young, one saw barely the ankle. The glimpse of a foamy petticoat, how alluring! The gentle swelling of the calf—a knee—a beribboned garter—”

“Naughty, naughty!” said Major Barry hoarsely.

“Much more sensible—the things we wear nowadays,” said Miss Brewster.

“Why, yes, M. Poirot,” said Mrs. Gardener. “I do think, you know, that our girls and boys nowadays lead a much more natural healthy life. They just romp about together and they—well, they—” Mrs. Gardener blushed slightly for she had a nice mind—“they think nothing of it, if you know what I mean?”