‘That’s true, of course,’ said Douglas Gold. ‘It’s a nuisance the Italian exchange is so absolutely ruinous at present.’

‘It does make a difference, doesn’t it?’

The conversation was running on strictly stereotyped lines. It could hardly have been called brilliant.

A little way along the beach, Valentine Chantry stirred and sat up. With one hand she held her bathing-dress in position across her breast.

She yawned, a wide yet delicate cat-like yawn. She glanced casually down the beach. Her eyes slanted past Marjorie Gold—and stayed thoughtfully on the crisp, golden head of Douglas Gold.

She moved her shoulders sinuously. She spoke and her voice was raised a little higher than it need have been.

‘Tony darling—isn’t it divine—this sun? I simply must have been a sun worshipper once—don’t you think so?’

Her husband grunted something in reply that failed to reach the others. Valentine Chantry went on in that high, drawling voice.

‘Just pull that towel a little flatter, will you, darling?’

She took infinite pains in the resettling of her beautiful body. Douglas Gold was looking now. His eyes were frankly interested.

Mrs Gold chirped happily in a subdued key to Miss Lyall.

‘What a beautiful woman!’

Pamela, as delighted to give as to receive information, replied in a lower voice:

‘That’s Valentine Chantry—you know, who used to be Valentine Dacres—she is rather marvellous, isn’t she? He’s simply crazy about her—won’t let her out of his sight!’

Mrs Gold looked once more along the beach. Then she said:

‘The sea really is lovely—so blue. I think we ought to go in now, don’t you, Douglas?’

He was still watching Valentine Chantry and took a minute or two to answer. Then he said, rather absently:

‘Go in? Oh, yes, rather, in a minute.’

Marjorie Gold got up and strolled down to the water’s edge.

Valentine Chantry rolled over a little on one side. Her eyes looked along at Douglas Gold. Her scarlet mouth curved faintly into a smile.

The neck of Mr Douglas Gold became slightly red.

Valentine Chantry said:

‘Tony darling—would you mind? I want a little pot of face-cream—it’s up on the dressing-table. I meant to bring it down. Do get it for me—there’s an angel.’

The commander rose obediently. He stalked off into the hotel.

Marjorie Gold plunged into the sea, calling out:

‘It’s lovely, Douglas—so warm. Do come.’

Pamela Lyall said to him:

‘Aren’t you going in?’

He answered vaguely:

‘Oh! I like to get well hotted up first.’

Valentine Chantry stirred. Her head was lifted for a moment as though to recall her husband—but he was just passing inside the wall of the hotel garden.

‘I like my dip the last thing,’ explained Mr Gold.

Mrs Chantry sat up again. She picked up a flask of sunbathing oil. She had some difficulty with it—the screw top seemed to resist her efforts.

She spoke loudly and petulantly.

‘Oh, dear—I can’t get this thing undone!’

She looked towards the other group—

‘I wonder—’

Always gallant, Poirot rose to his feet, but Douglas Gold had the advantage of youth and suppleness. He was by her side in a moment.