Inspector Colgate said:

“That fits in with my idea. A man from London or somewhere.”

Hercule Poirot shook his head. He said:

“But, my friend, according to your theory, Arlena Marshall had broken with this mythical man. Why, then, should she take such trouble and pains to meet him?”

Inspector Colgate shook his head. He said:

“Who do you think it was?”

“That is just what I cannot imagine. We have just read through the list of hotel guests. They are all middle-aged—dull. Which of them would Arlena Marshall prefer to Patrick Redfern? No, that is impossible. And yet, all the same, she did go to meet someone—and that someone was not Patrick Redfern.”

Weston murmured:

“You don’t think she just went off by herself?”

Poirot shook his head.

“Mon cher,” he said. “It is very evident that you never met the dead woman. Somebody once wrote a learned treatise on the difference that solitary confinement would mean to Beau Brummel or to a man like Newton. Arlena Marshall, my dear friend, would practically not exist in solitude. She only lived in the light of a man’s admiration. No, Arlena Marshall went to meet someone this morning. Who was it?”

II

Colonel Weston sighed, shook his head and said:

“Well, we can go into theories later. Got to get through these interviews now. Got to get it down in black and white where everyone was. I suppose we’d better see the Marshall girl now. She might be able to tell us something useful.”

Linda Marshall came into the room clumsily, knocking against the doorpost. She was breathing quickly and the pupils of her eyes were dilated. She looked like a startled young colt. Colonel Weston felt a kindly impulse towards her.

He thought:

“Poor kid—she’s nothing but a kid after all. This must have been a pretty bad shock to her.”

He drew up a chair and said in a reassuring voice.

“Sorry to put you through this, Miss—Linda, isn’t it?”

“Yes, Linda.”

Her voice had that indrawn breathy quality that is often characteristic of schoolgirls. Her hands rested helplessly on the table in front of him—pathetic hands, big and red, with large bones and long wrists. Weston thought:

“A kid oughtn’t to be mixed up in this sort of thing.”

He said reassuringly.

“There’s nothing very alarming about all this. We just want you to tell us anything you know that might be useful, that’s all.”

Linda said:

“You mean—about Arlena?”

“Yes. Did you see her this morning at all?”

The girl shook her head.

“No. Arlena always gets down rather late. She has breakfast in bed.”

Hercule Poirot said:

“And you, Mademoiselle?”

“Oh, I get up. Breakfast in bed’s so stuffy.”

Weston said:

“Will you tell us what you did this morning?”

“Well, I had a bathe first and then breakfast, and then I went with Mrs. Redfern to Gull Cove.”

Weston said:

“What time did you and Mrs. Redfern start?”

“She said she’d be waiting for me in the hall at half-past ten. I was afraid I was going to be late, but it was all right. We started off at about three minutes to the half hour.”