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Pilar said:

‘You are laughing at me…’

Stephen said:

‘You’re wrong. I’m not in a laughing mood.’

Pilar looked at him and said:

‘Because you, too, wish to get away from here?’

‘Yes.’

‘And the big, handsome policeman will not let you go?’

‘I haven’t asked him. But if I did, I’ve no doubt he’d say no. I’ve got to watch my step, Pilar, and be very very careful.’

‘That is tiresome,’ said Pilar, nodding her head.

‘It’s just a little bit more than tiresome, my dear. Then there’s that lunatic foreigner prowling about. I don’t suppose he’s any good but he makes me feel jumpy.’

Pilar was frowning. She said:

‘My grandfather was very, very rich, was he not?’

‘I should imagine so.’

‘Where does his money go to now? To Alfred and the others?’

‘Depends on his will.’

Pilar said thoughtfully: ‘He might have left me some money, but I am afraid that perhaps he did not.’

Stephen said kindly:

‘You’ll be all right. After all, you’re one of the family. You belong here. They’ll have to look after you.’

Pilar said with a sigh: ‘I—belong here. It is very funny, that. And yet it is not funny at all.’

‘I can see that you mightn’t find it very humorous.’

Pilar sighed again. She said:

‘Do you think if we put on the gramophone, we could dance?’

Stephen said dubiously:

‘It wouldn’t look any too good. This is a house of mourning, you callous Spanish baggage.’

Pilar said, her big eyes opening very wide:

‘But I do not feel sad at all. Because I did not really know my grandfather, and though I liked to talk to him, I do not want to cry and be unhappy because he is dead. It is very silly to pretend.’

Stephen said: ‘You’re adorable!’

Pilar said coaxingly:

‘We could put some stockings and some gloves in the gramophone, and then it would not make much noise, and no one would hear.’

‘Come along then, temptress.’

She laughed happily and ran out of the room, going along towards the ballroom at the far end of the house.

Then, as she reached the side passage which led to the garden door, she stopped dead. Stephen caught up with her and stopped also.

Hercule Poirot had unhooked a portrait from the wall and was studying it by the light from the terrace. He looked up and saw them.

‘Aha!’ he said. ‘You arrive at an opportune moment.’

Pilar said: ‘What are you doing?’

She came and stood beside him.

Poirot said gravely:

‘I am studying something very important, the face of Simeon Lee when he was a young man.’

‘Oh, is that my grandfather?’

‘Yes, mademoiselle.’

She stared at the painted face. She said slowly:

‘How different—how very different…He was so old, so shrivelled up. Here he is like Harry, like Harry might have been ten years ago.’

Hercule Poirot nodded.

‘Yes, mademoiselle. Harry Lee is very much the son of his father. Now here—’ He led her a little way along the gallery. ‘Here is madame, your grandmother—a long gentle face, very blonde hair, mild blue eyes.’

Pilar said:

‘Like David.’

Stephen said:

‘Just a look of Alfred too.’

Poirot said:

‘The heredity, it is very interesting. Mr Lee and his wife were diametrically opposite types. On the whole, the children of the marriage took after the mother. See here, mademoiselle.’

He pointed to a picture of a girl of nineteen or so, with hair like spun gold and wide, laughing blue eyes. The colouring was that of Simeon Lee’s wife, but there was a spirit, a vivacity that those mild blue eyes and placid features had never known.

‘Oh!’ said Pilar.

The colour came up in her face.

Her hand went to her neck. She drew out a locket on a long gold chain. She pressed the catch and it flew open. The same laughing face looked up at Poirot.

‘My mother,’ said Pilar.

Poirot nodded. On the opposite side of the locket was the portrait of a man. He was young and handsome, with black hair and dark blue eyes.

Poirot said: ‘Your father?’

Pilar said:

‘Yes, my father. He is very beautiful, is he not?’

‘Yes, indeed.