“Well, well,” I said, with a slight yawn, “I must be off home. Thank you for a

most interesting and instructive evening.”

 

Poirot also rose and bowed with his accustomed politeness as I passed out of the

room.

 

CHAPTER XXVII

 

APOLOGIA

 

Five a.m. I am very tired—but I have finished my task. My arm aches from

writing.

 

A strange end to my manuscript. I meant it to be published some day as the

history of one of Poirot’s failures! Odd, how things pan out.

 

All along I’ve had a premonition of disaster, from the moment I saw Ralph Paton

and Mrs. Ferrars with their heads together. I thought then that she was

confiding in him; as it happened I was quite wrong there, but the idea persisted

even after I went into the study with Ackroyd that night, until he told me the

truth.

 

Poor old Ackroyd. I’m always glad that I gave him a chance. I urged him to read

that letter before it was too late. Or let me be honest—didn’t I subconsciously