trouble over small sums of money. Roger Ackroyd was a peculiar man over money

matters. The girl might be at her wit’s end for a comparatively small sum.

Figure to yourself then what happens. She has taken the money, she descends the

little staircase. When she is half-way down she hears the chink of glass from

the hall. She has not a doubt of what it is—Parker coming to the study. At all

costs she must not be found on the stairs—Parker will not forget it, he will

think it odd. If the money is missed, Parker is sure to remember having seen her

come down those stairs. She has just time to rush down to the study door—with

her hand on the handle to show that she has just come out, when Parker appears

in the doorway. She says the first thing that comes into her head, a repetition

of Roger Ackroyd’s orders earlier in the evening, and then goes upstairs to her

own room.”

 

“Yes, but later,” persisted the inspector, “she must have realized the vital

importance of speaking the truth? Why, the whole case hinges on it!”

 

“Afterwards,” said Poirot dryly, “it was a little difficult for Mademoiselle

Flora. She is told simply that the police are here and that there has been a

robbery. Naturally she jumps to the conclusion that the theft of the money has

been discovered. Her one idea is to stick to her story. When she learns that her

uncle is dead she is panic-stricken. Young women do not faint nowadays,

monsieur, without considerable provocation. _Eh bien!_ there it is. She is bound

to stick to her story, or else confess everything. And a young and pretty girl

does not like to admit that she is a thief—especially before those whose esteem

she is anxious to retain.”