“I never dreamed of her being the thief,” I expostulated.

 

“That—perhaps no. But I was watching your face and you were not—like Inspector

Raglan—startled and incredulous.”

 

I thought for a minute or two.

 

“Perhaps you are right,” I said at last. “All along I’ve felt that Flora was

keeping back something—so the truth, when it came, was subconsciously expected.

It upset Inspector Raglan very much indeed, poor man.”

 

“Ah! _pour ça, oui_! The poor man must rearrange all his ideas. I profited by

his state of mental chaos to induce him to grant me a little favor.”

 

“What was that?”

 

Poirot took a sheet of notepaper from his pocket. Some words were written on it,

and he read them aloud.

 

“The police have, for some days, been seeking for Captain Ralph Paton, the

nephew of Mr. Ackroyd of Fernly Park, whose death occurred under such tragic

circumstances last Friday. Captain Paton has been found at Liverpool, where he

was on the point of embarking for America.”