Miss Russell rose.

 

“Thank you very much, M. Poirot,” she said. “You have been very kind—very kind

indeed. You—you do believe me, don’t you? That Charles had nothing to do with

this wicked murder!”

 

“There seems no doubt that the man who was talking to Mr. Ackroyd in the library

at nine-thirty could not possibly have been your son. Be of good courage,

mademoiselle. All will yet be well.”

 

Miss Russell departed. Poirot and I were left together.

 

“So that’s that,” I said. “Every time we come back to Ralph Paton. How did you

manage to spot Miss Russell as the person Charles Kent came to meet? Did you

notice the resemblance?”

 

“I had connected her with the unknown man long before we actually came face to

face with him. As soon as we found that quill. The quill suggested dope, and I

remembered your account of Miss Russell’s visit to you. Then I found the article

on cocaine in that morning’s paper. It all seemed very clear. She had heard from

some one that morning—some one addicted to drugs, she read the article in the

paper, and she came to you to ask a few tentative questions. She mentioned

cocaine, since the article in question was on cocaine. Then, when you seemed too

interested, she switched hurriedly to the subject of detective stories and

untraceable poisons. I suspected a son or a brother, or some other undesirable