her. She could have killed him then and there.”

 

“Caroline.”

 

“I’m not saying she _did_, James. I’m saying she _could_ have done. As a matter

of fact, though Flora is like all these young girls nowadays, with no veneration

for their betters and thinking they know best on every subject under the sun, I

don’t for a minute believe she’d kill even a chicken. But there it is. Mr.

Raymond and Major Blunt have alibis. Mrs. Ackroyd’s got an alibi. Even that

Russell woman seems to have one—and a good job for her it is she has. Who is

left? Only Ralph and Flora! And say what you will, I don’t believe Ralph Paton

is a murderer. A boy we’ve known all our lives.”

 

Poirot was silent for a minute, watching the curling smoke rise from his

cigarette. When at last he spoke, it was in a gentle far-away voice that

produced a curious impression. It was totally unlike his usual manner.

 

“Let us take a man—a very ordinary man. A man with no idea of murder in his

heart. There is in him somewhere a strain of weakness—deep down. It has so far

never been called into play. Perhaps it never will be—and if so he will go to

his grave honored and respected by every one. But let us suppose that something

occurs. He is in difficulties—or perhaps not that even. He may stumble by

accident on a secret—a secret involving life or death to some one. And his first

impulse will be to speak out—to do his duty as an honest citizen. And then the

strain of weakness tells. Here is a chance of money—a great amount of money.