‘Mrs Gold’s coming out,’ announced Pamela.

‘Here we go gathering nuts and may,’ hummed Sarah. ‘Here comes his wife to fetch him away—fetch him away—fetch him away…’

Mrs Gold came straight up the beach. She had quite a pretty figure but her plain, waterproof cap was rather too serviceable to be attractive.

‘Aren’t you coming, Douglas?’ she demanded impatiently. ‘The sea is lovely and warm.’

‘Rather.’

Douglas Gold rose hastily to his feet. He paused a moment and as he did so Valentine Chantry looked up at him with a sweet smile.

‘Au revoir,’ she said.

Gold and his wife went down the beach.

As soon as they were out of earshot, Pamela said critically:

‘I don’t think, you know, that that was wise. To snatch your husband away from another woman is always bad policy. It makes you seem so possessive. And husbands hate that.’

‘You seem to know a lot about husbands, Miss Pamela,’ said General Barnes.

‘Other people’s—not my own!’

‘Ah! that’s where the difference comes in.’

‘Yes, but General, I shall have learnt a lot of Do Nots.’

‘Well, darling,’ said Sarah, ‘I shouldn’t wear a cap like that for one thing…’

‘Seems very sensible to me,’ said the General. ‘Seems a nice, sensible little woman altogether.’

‘You’ve hit it exactly, General,’ said Sarah. ‘But you know there’s a limit to the sensibleness of sensible women. I have a feeling she won’t be so sensible when it’s a case of Valentine Chantry.’

She turned her head and exclaimed in a low, excited whisper:

‘Look at him now. Just like thunder. That man looks as though he had got the most frightful temper…’

Commander Chantry was indeed scowling after the retreating husband and wife in a singularly unpleasant fashion.

Sarah looked up at Poirot.

‘Well?’ she said. ‘What do you make of all this?’

Hercule Poirot did not reply in words, but once again his forefinger traced a design in the sand. The same design—a triangle.

‘The eternal triangle,’ mused Sarah. ‘Perhaps you’re right. If so, we’re in for an exciting time in the next few weeks.’

Chapter 2

M. Hercule Poirot was disappointed with Rhodes. He had come to Rhodes for a rest and for a holiday. A holiday, especially, from crime. In late October, so he had been told, Rhodes would be nearly empty. A peaceful, secluded spot.

That, in itself, was true enough. The Chantrys, the Golds, Pamela and Sarah, the General and himself and two Italian couples were the only guests. But within that restricted circle the intelligent brain of M. Poirot perceived the inevitable shaping of events to come.

‘It is that I am criminal-minded,’ he told himself reproachfully. ‘I have the indigestion! I imagine things.’

But still he worried.

One morning he came down to find Mrs Gold sitting on the terrace doing needlework.

As he came up to her he had the impression that there was the flicker of a cambric handkerchief swiftly whisked out of sight.

Mrs Gold’s eyes were dry, but they were suspiciously bright. Her manner, too, struck him as being a shade too cheerful. The brightness of it was a shade overdone.