“Dr. Sheppard had better tell you,” said Flora. “He knows more than I do.”
Thus enjoined, I plunged into a careful narrative, embodying all the facts I have previously set down. Poirot listened carefully, inserting a question here and there, but for the most part sitting in silence, his eyes on the ceiling.
I brought my story to a close with the departure of the inspector and myself from Fernly Park the previous night.
“And now,” said Flora, as I finished, “tell him all about Ralph.”
I hesitated, but her imperious glance drove me on.
“You went to this inn—this Three Boars—last night on your way home?” asked Poirot, as I brought my tale to a close. “Now exactly why was that?”
I paused a moment to choose my words carefully.
“I thought some one ought to inform the young man of his uncle’s death. It occurred to me after I had left Fernly that possibly no one but myself and Mr. Ackroyd were aware that he was staying in the village.”
Poirot nodded.
“Quite so. That was your only motive in going there, eh?”