“Then, if I may ask, why did you think—?”
Blunt explained laboriously.
“Took it for granted that it would be Raymond, because he had said just before I came out that he was taking some papers to Ackroyd. Never thought of it being anybody else.”
“Can you remember what the words you heard were?”
“Afraid I can’t. Something quite ordinary and unimportant. Only caught a scrap of it. I was thinking of something else at the time.”
“It is of no importance,” murmured Poirot. “Did you move a chair back against the wall when you went into the study after the body was discovered?”
“Chair? No—why should I?”
Poirot shrugged his shoulders but did not answer. He turned to Flora. “There is one thing I should like to know from you, mademoiselle. When you were examining the things in the silver table with Dr. Sheppard, was the dagger in its place, or was it not?”
Flora’s chin shot up.
“Inspector Raglan has been asking me that,” she said resentfully. “I’ve told him, and I’ll tell you. I’m perfectly certain the dagger was not there. He thinks it was and that Ralph sneaked it later in the evening. And—and he doesn’t believe me. He thinks I’m saying it to—to shield Ralph.”
“And aren’t you?” I asked gravely.
Flora stamped her foot.
“You, too, Dr. Sheppard! Oh! it’s too bad.”