They parted at last. A little over half an hour later came the discovery of

Roger Ackroyd’s body. Since that night Ursula had neither seen nor heard from

Ralph.

 

As the story unfolded itself, I realized more and more what a damning series of

facts it was. Alive, Ackroyd could hardly have failed to alter his will—I knew

him well enough to realize that to do so would be his first thought. His death

came in the nick of time for Ralph and Ursula Paton. Small wonder the girl had

held her tongue, and played her part so consistently.

 

My meditations were interrupted. It was Poirot’s voice speaking, and I knew from

the gravity of his tone that he, too, was fully alive to the implications of the

position.

 

“Mademoiselle, I must ask you one question, and you must answer it truthfully,

for on it everything may hang: What time was it when you parted from Captain

Ralph Paton in the summer-house? Now, take a little minute so that your answer

may be very exact.”

 

The girl gave a half laugh, bitter enough in all conscience.

 

“Do you think I haven’t gone over that again and again in my own mind?

 

It was just half-past nine when I went out to meet him. Major Blunt was walking