I smiled a little.

 

“My friend Hastings, he of whom I told you, used to say of me that I was the

human oyster. But he was unjust. Of facts, I keep nothing to myself. But to

every one his own interpretation of them.”

 

“When do you want me to do this?”

 

“Now, if you will. We are close to the house.”

 

“Aren’t you coming in?”

 

“No, me, I will promenade myself in the grounds. I will rejoin you by the lodge

gates in a quarter of an hour’s time.”

 

I nodded, and set off on my task. The only member of the family at home proved

to be Mrs. Ackroyd, who was sipping an early cup of tea. She received me very

graciously.

 

“So grateful to you, doctor,” she murmured, “for clearing up that little matter

with M. Poirot. But life is one trouble after another.

 

You have heard about Flora, of course?”

 

“What exactly?” I asked cautiously.