“The fire, my friend. Ackroyd himself may have destroyed that letter, blue

envelope and all, after you left him.”

 

“I hardly think that likely,” I said slowly. “And yet—of course, it may be so.

He might have changed his mind.”

 

We had just arrived at my house, and on the spur of the moment I invited Poirot

to come in and take pot luck.

 

I thought Caroline would be pleased with me, but it is hard to satisfy one’s

women folk. It appears that we were eating chops for lunch—the kitchen staff

being regaled on tripe and onions. And two chops set before three people are

productive of embarrassment.

 

But Caroline is seldom daunted for long. With magnificent mendacity, she

explained to Poirot that although James laughed at her for doing so, she adhered

strictly to a vegetarian diet. She descanted ecstatically on the delights of nut

cutlets (which I am quite sure she has never tasted) and ate a Welsh rarebit

with gusto and frequent cutting remarks as to the dangers of “flesh” foods.

 

Afterwards, when we were sitting in front of the fire and smoking, Caroline

attacked Poirot directly.

 

“Not found Ralph Paton yet?” she asked.