The room is not too hot, no?”

 

I thought it was stifling, but refrained from saying so. The windows were

closed, and a large fire burned in the grate.

 

“The English people, they have a mania for the fresh air,” declared Poirot. “The

big air, it is all very well outside, where it belongs.

 

Why admit it to the house? But let us not discuss such banalities. You have

something for me, yes?”

 

“Two things,” I said. “First—this—from my sister.”

 

I handed over the pot of medlar jelly.

 

“How kind of Mademoiselle Caroline. She has remembered her promise. And the

second thing?”

 

“Information—of a kind.”

 

And I told him of my interview with Mrs. Ackroyd. He listened with interest, but

not much excitement.

 

“It clears the ground,” he said thoughtfully. “And it has a certain value as