“Oh, it’s of no consequence, really. But, as a matter of fact, my conscience has

been pricking me ever since yesterday afternoon. You accused us all of keeping

back something, M. Poirot. I plead guilty.

 

I’ve had something up my sleeve.”

 

“And what is that, M. Raymond?”

 

“As I say, it’s nothing of consequence—just this. I was in debt—badly, and that

legacy came in the nick of time. Five hundred pounds puts me on my feet again

with a little to spare.”

 

He smiled at us both with that engaging frankness that made him such a likable

youngster.

 

“You know how it is. Suspicious looking policeman—don’t like to admit you were

hard up for money—think it will look bad to them. But I was a fool, really,

because Blunt and I were in the billiard room from a quarter to ten onwards, so

I’ve got a watertight alibi and nothing to fear. Still, when you thundered out

that stuff about concealing things, I felt a nasty prick of conscience, and I

thought I’d like to get it off my mind.”

 

He got up again and stood smiling at us.