There was a queer grudging expression on her face as she watched the other girl come up the gangplank.
Linnet Doyle was looking as perfectly turned out as if she were stepping on to the centre of the stage of a revue. She had something too of the assurance of a famous actress. She was used to being looked at, to being admired, to being the centre of the stage wherever she went.
She was aware of the keen glances bent upon her—and at the same time almost unaware of them; such tributes were part of her life.
She came ashore playing a role, even though she played it unconsciously. The rich beautiful society bride on her honeymoon. She turned, with a little smile and a light remark, to the tall man by her side. He answered, and the sound of his voice seemed to interest Hercule Poirot. His eyes lit up and he drew his brows together.
The couple passed close to him. He heard Simon Doyle say:
“We’ll try and make time for it, darling. We can easily stay a week or two if you like it here.”
His face was turned towards her, eager, adoring, a little humble.
Poirot’s eyes ran over him thoughtfully—the square shoulders, the bronzed face, the dark blue eyes, th
e rather childlike simplicity of the smile.
“Lucky devil,” said Tim after they had passed. “Fancy finding an heiress who hasn’t got adenoids and flat feet!”
“They look frightfully happy,” said Rosalie with a note of envy in her voice. She added suddenly, but so low that Tim did not catch the words, “It isn’t fair.”
Poirot heard, however. He had been frowning somewhat perplexedly, but now he flashed a quick glance towards her.
Tim said: “I must collect some stuff for my mother now.”
He raised his hat and moved off. Poirot and Rosalie retraced their steps slowly in the direction of the hotel, waving aside fresh proffers of donkeys.
“So it is not fair, Mademoiselle?” asked Poirot gently.
The girl flushed angrily.
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“I am repeating what you said just now under your breath. Oh, yes, you did.”
Rosalie Otterbourne shrugged her shoulders.
“It really seems a little too much for one person. Money, good looks, marvellous figure and—”
She paused and Poirot said:
“And love? Eh? And love? But you do not know—she may have been married for her money!”
“Didn’t you see the way he looked at her?”
“Oh, yes, Mademoiselle. I saw all there was to see—indeed I saw something that you did not.”
“What was that?”
Poirot said slowly: “I saw, Mademoiselle, dark lines below a woman’s eyes. I saw a hand that clutched a sunshade so tight that the knuckles were white….”
Rosalie was staring at him.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that all is not the gold that glitters. I mean that, though this lady is rich and beautiful and beloved, there is all the same something that is not right. And I know something else.”
“Yes?”