"I don't know. She told me last night that she was going to the Gap for a swim if she woke early. I woke early myself, but she was gone."
"I see. Well, Mr. Tisdall, if you've recovered I think we'll be getting along."
"Yes. Yes, certainly. I'm all right." He got to his feet and together and in silence they traversed the beach, climbed the steps at the Gap, and came on the car where Tisdall said he had left it: in the shade of the trees where the track ended. It was a beautiful car, if a little too opulent. A cream-colored two-seater with a space between the seats and the hood for parcels, or, at a pinch, for an extra passenger. From this space, the sergeant, exploring, produced a woman's coat and a pair of the sheepskin boots popular with women at winter race-meetings.
"That's what she wore to go down to the beach. Just the coat and boots over her bathing things. There's a towel, too."
There was. The sergeant produced it: a brilliant object in green and orange.
"Funny she didn't take it to the beach with her," he said.
"She liked to dry herself in the sun usually."
"You seem to know a lot about the habits of a lady whose name you didn't know." The sergeant inserted himself into the second seat. "How long have you been living with her?"
"Staying with her," amended Tisdall, his voice for the first time showing an edge. "Get this straight, Sergeant, and it may save you a lot of bother: Chris was my hostess. Not anything else. We stayed in her cottage unchaperoned, but a regiment of servants couldn't have made our relations more correct. Does that strike you as so very peculiar?"
"Very," said the sergeant frankly. "What are these doing here?"