“You are a very wise young man,” said Poirot, nodding at him with approval. “See

you, when I know that any one is hiding things from me, I suspect that the thing

hidden may be something very bad indeed. You have done well.”

 

“I’m glad I’m cleared from suspicion,” laughed Raymond. “I’ll be off now.”

 

“So that is that,” I remarked, as the door closed behind the young secretary.

 

“Yes,” agreed Poirot. “A mere bagatelle—but if he had not been in the billiard

room—who knows? After all, many crimes have been committed for the sake of less

than five hundred pounds. It all depends on what sum is sufficient to break a

man. A question of the relativity, is it not so? Have you reflected, my friend,

that many people in that house stood to benefit by Mr. Ackroyd’s death? Mrs.

Ackroyd, Miss Flora, young Mr.

 

Raymond, the housekeeper, Miss Russell. Only one, in fact, does not, Major

Blunt.”

 

His tone in uttering that name was so peculiar that I looked up, puzzled.

 

“I don’t quite understand you?” I said.

 

“Two of the people I accused have given me the truth.”

 

“You think Major Blunt has something to conceal also?”