terrace outside, and couldn’t catch the words clearly, but he distinctly heard

the voices.”

 

Poirot nodded.

 

“I have not forgotten,” he said quietly. “But Major Blunt was under the

impression that it was _you_ to whom Mr. Ackroyd was speaking.”

 

For a moment Raymond seemed taken aback. Then he recovered himself.

 

“Blunt knows now that he was mistaken,” he said.

 

“Exactly,” agreed the other man.

 

“Yet there must have been some reason for his thinking so,” mused Poirot. “Oh!

no,” he held up his hand in protest, “I know the reason you will give—but it is

not enough. We must seek elsewhere. I will put it this way. From the beginning

of the case I have been struck by one thing—the nature of those words which Mr.

Raymond overheard. It has been amazing to me that no one has commented on

them—has seen anything odd about them.”

 

He paused a minute, and then quoted softly:—

 

“... _The calls on my purse have been so frequent of late that I fear it is

impossible for me to accede to your request._ Does nothing strike you as odd