‘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. Few Spaniards have blue eyes, have they, señorita?’
‘Sometimes, in the North. Besides, my father’s mother was Irish.’
Poirot said thoughtfully:
‘So you have Spanish blood, and Irish and English, and a touch of gipsy too. Do you know what I think, mademoiselle? With that inheritance, you should make a bad enemy.’
Stephen said, laughing:
‘Remember what you said in the train, Pilar? That your way of dealing with your enemies would be to cut their throats. Oh!’
He stopped—suddenly realizing the import of his words.
Hercule Poirot was quick to lead the conversation away. He said:
‘Ah, yes, there was something, señorita, I had to ask you. Your passport. It is needed by my friend the superintendent. There are, you know, police regulations—very stupid, very tiresome, but necessary—for a foreigner in this country. And of course, by law, you are a foreigner.’
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Pilar’s eyebrows rose.
‘My passport? Yes, I will get it. It is in my room.’
Poirot said apologetically as he walked by her side:
‘I am most sorry to trouble you. I am indeed.’
They had reached the end of the long gallery. Here was a flight of stairs. Pilar ran up and Poirot followed. Stephen came too. Pilar’s bedroom was just at the head of the stairs.
She said as she reached the door: ‘I will get it for you.’