“But certainly I have heard. It is horrible. I offer mademoiselle all my

sympathy. In what way can I serve you?”

 

“Miss Ackroyd,” I said, “wants you to—to——”

 

“To find the murderer,” said Flora in a clear voice.

 

“I see,” said the little man. “But the police will do that, will they not?”

 

“They might make a mistake,” said Flora. “They are on their way to make a

mistake now, I think. Please, M. Poirot, won’t you help us? If—if it is a

question of money——”

 

Poirot held up his hand.

 

“Not that, I beg of you, mademoiselle. Not that I do not care for money.” His

eyes showed a momentary twinkle. “Money, it means much to me and always has

done. No, if I go into this, you must understand one thing clearly. _I shall go

through with it to the end._ The good dog, he does not leave the scent,

remember! You may wish that, after all, you had left it to the local police.”

 

“I want the truth,” said Flora, looking him straight in the eyes.

 

“All the truth?”