it, and opening it, drew out a thick wallet.

 

“Here is the money,” he said, taking out a fat roll of notes. “You will find the

hundred intact, I know, for Mr. Ackroyd put it in the collar-box in my presence

last night when he was dressing for dinner, and of course it has not been

touched since.”

 

Mr. Hammond took the roll from him and counted it. He looked up sharply.

 

“A hundred pounds, you said. But there is only sixty here.”

 

Raymond stared at him.

 

“Impossible,” he cried, springing forward. Taking the notes from the other’s

hand, he counted them aloud.

 

Mr. Hammond had been right. The total amounted to sixty pounds.

 

“But—I can’t understand it,” cried the secretary, bewildered.

 

Poirot asked a question.

 

“You saw Mr. Ackroyd put this money away last night when he was dressing for

dinner? You are sure he had not paid away any of it already?”