XII

David Lee had himself well in hand. His demeanour was calm—almost unnaturally¹ so. He came

up to them, drew a chair forward and sat down, looking with grave interrogation at Colonel

Johnson.

The electric light touched the fair peak of hair that grew on his forehead and showed up the

sensitive modelling of the cheek bones. He looked absurdly young to be the son of that shrivelled

old man who lay dead upstairs.

“Yes, gentlemen,” he said, “what can I tell you?”

Colonel Johnson said:

“I understand, Mr. Lee, that there was a kind of family meeting held in your father’s room

this afternoon?”

“There was. But it was quite informal. I mean, it was not a family council or anything of that

kind.”

“What took place there?”

David Lee answered calmly:

“My father was in a difficult mood. He was an old man and an invalid², of course, one had to

make allowances for him. He seemed to have assembled us there in order to—well—vent his spite

upon us.”

“Can you remember what he said?”

David said quietly:

“It was really all rather foolish. He said we were no use—any of us—that there wasn’t a

single man in the family! He said Pilar (that is my Spanish niece) was worth two of any of us. He

said—” David stopped.

Poirot said:

“Please, Mr. Lee, the exact words, if you can.”

David said reluctantly:

“He spoke³ rather coarsely—said he hoped that somewhere in the world he had better sons—

even if they were born the wrong side of the blanket. . . .”

His sensitive face showed distaste for the words he was repeating. Superintendent⁴ Sugden

looked up, suddenly alert. Leaning forward, he said:

“Did your father say anything in particular to your brother, Mr. George Lee?”

“To George? I don’t remember. Oh, yes, I believe he told him he would have to cut down

expenses in future; he’d have to reduce his allowance. George was very upset, got as red as a

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