“I beg your pardon,” I said, reddening. “I do not mean read it aloud to me. But

read it through whilst I am still here.”

 

Ackroyd shook his head.

 

“No, I’d rather wait.”

 

But for some reason, obscure to myself, I continued to urge him.

 

“At least, read the name of the man,” I said.

 

Now Ackroyd is essentially pig-headed. The more you urge him to do a thing, the

more determined he is not to do it. All my arguments were in vain.

 

The letter had been brought in at twenty minutes to nine. It was just on ten

minutes to nine when I left him, the letter still unread. I hesitated with my

hand on the door handle, looking back and wondering if there was anything I had

left undone. I could think of nothing. With a shake of the head I passed out and

closed the door behind me.

 

I was startled by seeing the figure of Parker close at hand. He looked

embarrassed, and it occurred to me that he might have been listening at the

door.