The Man in the Brown Suit by Agatha Christie Page B

dancing was over, and I was thinking of going to bed, he suggested a turn round the deck. We walked round three times and finally subsided into two deck-chairs. There was nobody else in sight. We made desultory conversation for some time.
    “Do you know. Miss Beddingfield, I think that I once met your father? A very interesting man - on his own subject, and it's a subject that has a special fascination for me. In my humble way, I've done a bit in that line myself. Why, when I was in the Dordogne region -”
    Our talk became technical. Colonel Race's boast was not an idle one. He knew a great deal. At the same time, he made one or two curious mistakes - slips of the tongue, I might almost have thought them. But he was quick to take his cue from me and to cover them up. Once he spoke of the Mousterian period as succeeding the Aurignacian - an absurd mistake for one who knew anything of the subject.
    It was twelve o'clock when I went to my cabin. I was still puzzling over those queer discrepancies. Was it possible that he had “got the whole subject up” for the occasion - that really he knew nothing of archaeology? I shook my head, vaguely dissatisfied with that solution.
    Just as I was dropping off to sleep, I sat up with a sudden start as another idea flashed into my head. Had he been pumping me? Were those slight inaccuracies just tests - to see whether I really knew what I was talking about? In other words, he suspected me of not being genuinely Anne Beddingfield.
    Why?

The Man in the Brown Suit

Chapter 12
    (Extract from the diary of Sir Eustace Pedler)
    There is something to be said for life on board ship. It is peaceful. My grey hairs fortunately exempt me from the indignities of bobbing for apples, running up and down the deck with potatoes and eggs, and the more painful sports of “Brother Bill” and Bolster Bar. What amusement people can find in these painful proceedings has always been a mystery to me. But there are many fools in the world. One praises God for their existence and keeps out of their way.
    Fortunately I am an excellent sailor. Pagett, poor fellow, is not. He began turning green as soon as we were out of the Solent. I presume my other so-called secretary is also sea-sick. At any rate he has not yet made his appearance. But perhaps it is not sea-sickness, but high diplomacy. The great thing is that I have not been worried by him.
    On the whole, the people on board are a mangy lot. Only two decent Bridge players and one decent-looking woman - Mrs. Clarence Blair. I've met her in town, of course. She is one of the only women I know who can lay claim to a sense of humour. I enjoy talking to her, and should enjoy it more if it were not for a long-legged taciturn ass who attached himself to her like a limpet. I cannot think that this Colonel Race really amuses her. He's good-looking in his way, but dull as ditch water. One of these strong silent men that lady novelists and young girls always rave over.
    Guy Pagett struggled up on deck after we left Madeira and began babbling in a hollow voice about work. What the devil does anyone want to work for on board ship? It is true that I promised my publishers my “Reminiscences” early in the summer, but what of it? Who really reads reminiscences? Old ladies in the suburbs. And what do my reminiscences amount to? I've knocked against a certain number of so-called famous people in my lifetime. With the assistance of Pagett, I invent insipid anecdotes about them. And, the truth of the matter is, Pagett is too honest for the job. He won't let me invent anecdotes about the people I might have met but haven't.
    I tried kindness with him.
    “You look a perfect wreck still, my dear chap,” I said easily. “What you need is a deck-chair in the sun. No - not another word. The work must wait.”
    The next thing I knew he was worrying about an extra cabin. “There's no room to work in your cabin, Sir Eustace. It's full of trunks.”
    From his tone, you might have