“Then it would seem that in this Charles Kent we have the man we are looking for. He came to Fernly, can give no account of what he was doing there——”
“I can tell you what he was doing there. He never touched a hair of old Ackroyd’s head—he never went near the study. He didn’t do it, I tell you.”
She was leaning forward. That iron self-control was broken through at last. Terror and desperation were in her face.
“M. Poirot! M. Poirot! Oh, do believe me.”
Poirot got up and came to her. He patted her reassuringly on the shoulder.
“But yes—but yes, I will believe. I had to make you speak, you know.”
For an instant suspicion flared up in her.
“Is what you said true?”
“That Charles Kent is suspected of the crime? Yes, that is true. You alone can save him, by telling the reason for his being at Fernly.”
“He came to see me.” She spoke in a low, hurried voice. “I went out to meet him——”