“As far as that goes—” I began doubtfully.
He spun round on me.
“What? What are you going to say?”
“Nothing, Nothing. Only that, strictly speaking, Mrs. Ferrars in her letter mentioned a person —she didn’t actually specify a man. But we took it for granted, Ackroyd and I, that it was a man.”
Poirot did not seem to be listening to me. He was muttering to himself again. “But then it is possible after all—yes, certainly it is possible—but then—ah! I must rearrange my ideas. Method, order; never have I needed them more. Everything must fit in—in its appointed place—otherwise I am on the wrong tack.”
He broke off, and whirled round upon me again.
“Where is Marby?”
“It’s on the other side of Cranchester.”
“How far away?”
“Oh!—fourteen miles, perhaps.”
“Would it be possible for you to go there? Tomorrow, say?”
“Tomorrow? Let me see, that’s Sunday. Yes, I could arrange it. What do you want me to do there?”
“See this Mrs. Folliott. Find out all you can about Ursula Bourne.”
“Very well. But—I don’t much care for the job.”
“It is not the time to make difficulties. A man’s life may hang on this.”