“You see now why I drew attention to the reticence of your manuscript,” murmured

Poirot. “It was strictly truthful as far as it went—but it did not go very far,

eh, my friend?”

 

I was too abashed to argue.

 

“Dr. Sheppard has been very loyal,” said Ralph. “He has stood by me through

thick and thin. He did what he thought was the best. I see now, from what M.

Poirot has told me, that it was not really the best. I should have come forward

and faced the music. You see, in the home, we never saw a newspaper. I knew

nothing of what was going on.”

 

“Dr. Sheppard has been a model of discretion,” said Poirot dryly. “But me, I

discover all the little secrets. It is my business.”

 

“Now we can have your story of what happened that night,” said Raymond

impatiently.

 

“You know it already,” said Ralph. “There’s very little for me to add.

 

I left the summer-house about nine-forty-five, and tramped about the lanes,

trying to make up my mind as to what to do next—what line to take. I’m bound to

admit that I’ve not the shadow of an alibi, but I give you my solemn word that I

never went to the study, that I never saw my stepfather alive—or dead. Whatever

the world thinks, I’d like all of you to believe me.”