I refrained from comments, accepting Mrs. Ackroyd’s story on its merits. I even

forbore to ask her why it was necessary to abstract what she wanted in such a

surreptitious manner.

 

“Why did you leave the lid open?” I asked. “Did you forget?”

 

“I was startled,” said Mrs. Ackroyd. “I heard footsteps coming along the terrace

outside. I hastened out of the room and just got up the stairs before Parker

opened the front door to you.”

 

“That must have been Miss Russell,” I said thoughtfully. Mrs. Ackroyd had

revealed to me one fact that was extremely interesting. Whether her designs upon

Ackroyd’s silver had been strictly honorable I neither knew nor cared. What did

interest me was the fact that Miss Russell must have entered the drawing-room by

the window, and that I had not been wrong when I judged her to be out of breath

with running. Where had she been? I thought of the summer-house and the scrap of

cambric.

 

“I wonder if Miss Russell has her handkerchiefs starched!” I exclaimed on the

spur of the moment.

 

Mrs. Ackroyd’s start recalled me to myself, and I rose.

 

“You think you can explain to M. Poirot?” she asked anxiously.