“The police have, for some days, been seeking for Captain Ralph Paton, the nephew of Mr. Ackroyd of Fernly Park, whose death occurred under such tragic circumstances last Friday. Captain Paton has been found at Liverpool, where he was on the point of embarking for America.”
He folded up the piece of paper again.
“That, my friend, will be in the newspapers to-morrow morning.”
I stared at him, dumbfounded.
“But—but it isn’t true! He’s not at Liverpool!”
Poirot beamed on me.
“You have the intelligence so quick! No, he has not been found at Liverpool. Inspector Raglan was very loath to let me send this paragraph to the press, especially as I could not take him into my confidence. But I assured him most solemnly that very interesting results would follow its appearance in print, so he gave in, after stipulating that he was, on no account, to bear the responsibility.”
I stared at Poirot. He smiled back at me.
“It beats me,” I said at last, “what you expect to get out of that.”
“You should employ your little gray cells,” said Poirot gravely.