“I appreciate your motives. Miss Ackroyd. But don’t you think you’re being rather precipitate? Wait a day or two.”
“Tomorrow,” said Flora in a clear voice. “It’s no good, Mother, going on like this. Whatever else I am, I’m not disloyal to my friends.”
“ M. Poirot,” Mrs. Ackroyd appealed tearfully. “Can’t you say anything at all?”
“Nothing to be said,” interpolated Blunt. “She’s doing the right thing. I’ll stand by her through thick and thin.”
Flora held out her hand to him. “Thank you, Major Blunt,” she said.
“Mademoiselle,” said Poirot, “will you let an old man congratulate you on your courage and your loyalty? And will you not misunderstand me if I ask you—ask you most solemnly—to postpone the announcement you speak of for at least two days more?”
Flora hesitated.
“I ask it in Ralph Paton’s interests as much as in yours, mademoiselle. You frown. You do not see how that can be. But I assure you that it is so. Pas de blagues. You put the case into my hands—you must not hamper me now.”
Flora paused a few minutes before replying. “I do not like it,” she said at last, “but I will do what you say.”
She sat down again at the table.
“And now, messieurs et mesdames ,” said Poirot rapidly, “I will continue with what I was about to say. Understand this: I mean to arrive at the truth. The truth, however ugly in itself, is always curious and beautiful to the seeker after it. I am much aged, my powers may not be what they