“_Mais oui, mais oui._ I heard. I am not deaf—nor stupid, thank the good God!

But see you, you approach the matter from the wrong—the wrong—premises, is not

that the word?”

 

The inspector stared at him heavily.

 

“I don’t see how you make that out. Look here, we know Mr. Ackroyd was alive at

a quarter to ten. You admit that, don’t you?”

 

Poirot looked at him for a moment, then shook his head with a quick smile.

 

“I admit nothing that is not—_proved_!”

 

“Well, we’ve got proof enough of that. We’ve got Miss Flora Ackroyd’s evidence.”

 

“That she said good-night to her uncle? But me—I do not always believe what a

young lady tells me—no, not even when she is charming and beautiful.”

 

“But hang it all, man, Parker saw her coming out of the door.”

 

“No.” Poirot’s voice rang out with sudden sharpness. “That is just what he did

not see. I satisfied myself of that by a little experiment the other day—you

remember, doctor? Parker saw her _outside_ the door, with her hand on the

handle. He did not see her come out of the room.”