States.”
“What first attracted your attention to that summerhouse?” I asked curiously.
“My friend the inspector took it for granted that anyone using that path did so as a shortcut to the house, but as soon as I saw the summerhouse, I realized that the same path would be taken by anyone using the summerhouse as a rendezvous. Now it seems fairly certain that the stranger came neither to the front nor to the back door. Then did someone from the house go out and meet him? If so, what could be a more convenient place than that little summerhouse? I searched it with the hope that I might find some clue inside. I found two, the scrap of cambric and the quill.”
“And the scrap of cambric?” I asked curiously. “What about that?”
Poirot raised his eyebrows. “You do not use your little grey cells,” he remarked drily. “The scrap of starched cambric should be obvious.”
“Not very obvious to me.” I changed the subject. “Anyway,” I said, “this man went to the summerhouse to meet somebody. Who was that somebody?”
“Exactly the question,” said Poirot. “You will remember that Mrs. Ackroyd and her daughter came over from Canada to live here?”
“Is that what you meant today when you accused them of hiding the truth?”
“Perhaps. Now another point. What did you think of the parlour maid’s story?”
“What story?”