“A hundred pounds, you said. But there is only sixty here.”
Raymond stared at him.
“Impossible,” he cried, springing forward. Taking the notes from the other’s hand, he counted them aloud.
Mr. Hammond had been right. The total amounted to sixty pounds.
“But—I can’t understand it,” cried the secretary, bewildered.
Poirot asked a question.
“You saw Mr. Ackroyd put this money away last night when he was dressing for dinner? You are sure he had not paid away any of it already?”
“I’m sure he hadn’t. He even said, ‘I don’t want to take a hundred pounds down to dinner with me. Too bulgy.’”
“Then the affair is very simple,” remarked Poirot. “Either he paid out that forty pounds sometime last evening, or else it has been stolen.”
“That’s the matter in a nutshell,” agreed the inspector. He turned to Mrs. Ackroyd. “Which of the servants would come in here yesterday evening?”