way people were already talking about it.”

 

“Caroline,” I said sharply, “did you tell M. Poirot what you overheard in the

wood that day?”

 

“I did,” said Caroline complacently.

 

I got up and began to walk about.

 

“You realize what you’re doing, I hope,” I jerked out. “You’re putting a halter

round Ralph Paton’s neck as surely as you’re sitting in that chair.”

 

“Not at all,” said Caroline, quite unruffled. “I was surprised _you_ hadn’t told

him.”

 

“I took very good care not to,” I said. “I’m fond of that boy.”

 

“So am I. That’s why I say you’re talking nonsense. I don’t believe Ralph did

it, and so the truth can’t hurt him, and we ought to give M.

 

Poirot all the help we can. Why, think, very likely Ralph was out with that

identical girl on the night of the murder, and if so, he’s got a perfect alibi.”

 

“If he’s got a perfect alibi,” I retorted, “why doesn’t he come forward and say

so?”