There was a pause.
“You will explain to M. Poirot, won’t you? You can see for yourself what a trivial matter the whole thing was. But, of course, when he was so stern about concealing things, I thought of this at once. Bourne may have made some extraordinary story out of it, but you can explain, can’t you?”
“That is all?” I said. “You have told me everything?”
“Ye‑es,” said Mrs. Ackroyd. “Oh! yes,” she added firmly.
But I had noted the momentary hesitation, and I knew that there was still something she was keeping back. It was nothing less than a flash of sheer genius that prompted me to ask the question I did.
“ Mrs. Ackroyd,” I said, “was it you who left the silver table open?”
I had my answer in the blush of guilt that even rouge and powder could not conceal.
“How did you know?” she whispered.
“It was you, then?”
“Yes—I—you see—there were one or two pieces of old silver—very interesting. I had been reading up the subject and there was an illustration of quite a small piece which had fetched an immense sum at Christie’s. It looked to be just the same as the one in the silver table. I thought I would take it up to London with me when I went—and—and have it valued. Then if it really was a valuable piece, just think what a charming surprise it would have been for Roger?”