“And you neither saw nor heard anything of him after that?”
“Didn’t see him. Heard his voice.”
“How was that?”
“I strolled out on the terrace—”
“Pardon me, what time was that?”
“About half-past nine. I was walking up and down smoking in front of the drawing room window. I heard Ackroyd talking in his study—”
Poirot stopped and removed a microscopic weed. “Surely you couldn’t hear voices in the study from that part of the terrace,” he murmured.
He was not looking at Blunt, but I was, and to my intense surprise, I saw the latter flush.
“Went as far as the corner,” he explained unwillingly.
“Ah! indeed?” said Poirot.
In the mildest manner he conveyed an impression that more was wanted.
“Thought I saw—a woman disappearing into the bushes. Just a gleam of white, you know. Must have been mistaken. It was while I was standing at the corner of the terrace that I heard Ackroyd’s voice speaking to that secretary of his.”
“Speaking to Mr. Geoffrey Raymond?”
“Yes—that’s what I supposed at the time. Seems I was wrong.”
“ Mr. Ackroyd didn’t address him by name?”
“Oh, no.”