I was silent for a minute or two. Then I made up my mind what to say.

 

Roger Ackroyd was not Caroline.

 

“I’ll tell you the truth,” I said. “At the time I had no suspicion whatever, but

since—well, it was mere idle talk on my sister’s part that first put the idea

into my head. Since then I haven’t been able to get it out again. But, mind you,

I’ve no foundation whatever for that suspicion.”

 

“He _was_ poisoned,” said Ackroyd.

 

He spoke in a dull heavy voice.

 

“Who by?” I asked sharply.

 

“His wife.”

 

“How do you know that?”

 

“She told me so herself.”

 

“When?”

 

“Yesterday! My God! yesterday! It seems ten years ago.”