“Get on!”

“They are! It’s a fact. Very nice, too,” Mr. Cuddy said with a curious twist in his voice.

“Did you see what happened with the other lady reading over the elderly chap’s shoulder? In the bus?”

“Did I what! Talk about a freezer! Phew!”

“He was reading about those murders. You know. The Flower Murderer. They make out he leaves flowers all scattered over the breasts of his victims. And sings.”

“Before or after?”

“After, isn’t it awful?” Mrs. Cuddy asked with enormous relish.

Mr. Cuddy made an indefinite noise.

His wife ruminated, “It gives me the creeps to think about. Wonder what makes him go on so crazy.”

“Women.”

“That’s right. Put it all on the ladies,” she said good-naruredly. “Just like a man.”

“Well, ask yourself. Was there much in the paper?”

“I couldn’t see properly, but I think so. It’s on all the placards. They haven’t got him, of course.”

“Wish we’d got a paper. Can’t think how I forgot.”

“There might be one in the lounge.”

“What a hope!”

“The old chap left his in the bus. I noticed.”

“Did you? You know,” Mr. Cuddy said, “I’ve got quite a fancy for the evening paper. I might stroll back and see if it’s there. The bus doesn’t go till eleven. I can just do it.”

“Don’t be long. You know what I’m like. If you missed the boat—”

“We don’t sail till midnight, dear, and it’s only ten to eleven now. I won’t be more than a few minutes. Think I’d let you go out to sea with all these fascinatin’ sailors?”

“Get along with you!”

“Won’t be half a tick. I’ve got the fancy for it.”

“I know I’m silly,” Mrs. Cuddy said, “but whenever you go out — to the lodge or anything — I always get that nervous.”

“Silly girl. I’d say come too, but it’s not worth it. There’s coffee on down below.”