“But—where else could she have been?”

 

“Perhaps on the stairs.”

 

“The stairs?”

 

“That is my little idea—yes.”

 

“But those stairs only lead to Mr. Ackroyd’s bedroom.”

 

“Precisely.”

 

And still the inspector stared.

 

“You think she’d been up to her uncle’s bedroom? Well, why not? Why should she

lie about it?”

 

“Ah! that is just the question. It depends on what she was doing there, does it

not?”

 

“You mean—the money? Hang it all, you don’t suggest that it was Miss Ackroyd who

took that forty pounds?”

 

“I suggest nothing,” said Poirot. “But I will remind you of this. Life was not

very easy for that mother and daughter. There were bills—there was constant