“That must have been Miss Russell,” I said thoughtfully. Mrs. Ackroyd had revealed to me one fact that was extremely interesting. Whether her designs upon Ackroyd’s silver had been strictly honorable I neither knew nor cared. What did interest me was the fact that Miss Russell must have entered the drawing-room by the window, and that I had not been wrong when I judged her to be out of breath with running. Where had she been? I thought of the summer-house and the scrap of cambric.
“I wonder if Miss Russell has her handkerchiefs starched!” I exclaimed on the spur of the moment.
Mrs. Ackroyd’s start recalled me to myself, and I rose.
“You think you can explain to M. Poirot?” she asked anxiously.
“Oh, certainly. Absolutely.”
I got away at last, after being forced to listen to more justifications of her conduct.
The parlormaid was in the hall, and it was she who helped me on with my overcoat. I observed her more closely than I had done heretofore. It was clear that she had been crying.
“How is it,” I asked, “that you told us that Mr. Ackroyd sent for you on Friday to his study? I hear now that it was you who asked to speak to him?”
For a minute the girl’s eyes dropped before mine.
Then she spoke.