“I see,” I said helpfully. “So you searched the desk. Did you find the will?”

 

Mrs. Ackroyd gave a little scream, and I realized that I had not been

sufficiently diplomatic.

 

“How dreadful it sounds. But it wasn’t at all like that really.”

 

“Of course it wasn’t,” I said hastily. “You must forgive my unfortunate way of

putting things.”

 

“You see, men are so peculiar. In dear Roger’s place, I should not have objected

to revealing the provisions of my will. But men are so secretive. One is forced

to adopt little subterfuges in self-defence.”

 

“And the result of the little subterfuge?” I asked.

 

“That’s just what I’m telling you. As I got to the bottom drawer, Bourne came

in. Most awkward. Of course I shut the drawer and stood up, and I called her

attention to a few specks of dust on the surface.

 

But I didn’t like the way she looked—quite respectful in manner, but a very

nasty light in her eyes. Almost contemptuous, if you know what I mean. I never

have liked that girl very much. She’s a good servant, and she says Ma’am, and

doesn’t object to wearing caps and aprons (which I declare to you a lot of them