about that?”

 

“I don’t think so,” said Raymond. “He has frequently dictated letters to me,

using almost exactly those same words.”

 

“Exactly,” cried Poirot. “That is what I seek to arrive at. Would any man use

such a phrase in _talking_ to another? Impossible that that should be part of a

real conversation. Now, if he had been dictating a letter——”

 

“You mean he was reading a letter aloud,” said Raymond slowly. “Even so, he must

have been reading to some one.”

 

“But why? We have no evidence that there was any one else in the room.

 

No other voice but Mr. Ackroyd’s was heard, remember.”

 

“Surely a man wouldn’t read letters of that type aloud to himself—not unless he

was—well—going balmy.”

 

“You have all forgotten one thing,” said Poirot softly: “the stranger who called

at the house the preceding Wednesday.”

 

They all stared at him.

 

“But yes,” said Poirot, nodding encouragingly, “on Wednesday. The young man was