“That disposes pretty effectually of the household,” continued the inspector.

“Now we come to a very grave point. The woman at the lodge—Mary Black—was

pulling the curtains last night when she saw Ralph Paton turn in at the gate and

go up towards the house.”

 

“She is sure of that?” I asked sharply.

 

“Quite sure. She knows him well by sight. He went past very quickly and turned

off by the path to the right, which is a short cut to the terrace.”

 

“And what time was that?” asked Poirot, who had sat with an immovable face.

 

“Exactly twenty-five minutes past nine,” said the inspector gravely.

 

There was a silence. Then the inspector spoke again.

 

“It’s all clear enough. It fits in without a flaw. At twenty-five minutes past

nine, Captain Paton is seen passing the lodge; at nine-thirty or thereabouts,

Mr. Geoffrey Raymond hears some one in here asking for money and Mr. Ackroyd

refusing. What happens next? Captain Paton leaves the same way—through the

window. He walks along the terrace, angry and baffled. He comes to the open

drawing-room window.

 

Say it’s now a quarter to ten. Miss Flora Ackroyd is saying good-night to her

uncle. Major Blunt, Mr. Raymond, and Mrs. Ackroyd are in the billiard room. The