Nine-thirty—that’s the time we’ve got to hang on to. You were quite right about

the man Kent—we don’t release _him_ yet awhile. Let me see now—nine-forty-five

at the Dog and Whistle. He might have got there in a quarter of an hour if he

ran. It’s just possible that it was _his_ voice Mr. Raymond heard talking to Mr.

Ackroyd—asking for money which Mr. Ackroyd refused. But one thing’s clear—it

wasn’t he who sent the telephone message. The station is half a mile in the

other direction—over a mile and a half from the Dog and Whistle, and he was at

the Dog and Whistle until about ten minutes past ten. Dang that telephone call!

We always come up against it.”

 

“We do indeed,” agreed Poirot. “It is curious.”

 

“It’s just possible that if Captain Paton climbed into his uncle’s room and

found him there murdered, _he_ may have sent it. Got the wind up, thought he’d

be accused, and cleared out. That’s possible, isn’t it?”

 

“Why should he have telephoned?”

 

“May have had doubts if the old man was really dead. Thought he’d get the doctor

up there as soon as possible, but didn’t want to give himself away. Yes, I say

now, how’s that for a theory? Something in that, I should say.”

 

The inspector swelled his chest out importantly. He was so plainly delighted

with himself that any words of ours would have been quite superfluous.