I refrained from comments, accepting Mrs. Ackroyd’s story on its merits. I even forbore to ask her why it was necessary to abstract what she wanted in such a surreptitious manner.
“Why did you leave the lid open?” I asked. “Did you forget?”
“I was startled,” said Mrs. Ackroyd. “I heard footsteps coming along the terrace outside. I hastened out of the room and just got up the stairs before Parker opened the front door to you.”
“That must have been Miss Russell,” I said thoughtfully.
Mrs. Ackroyd had revealed to me one fact that was extremely interesting. Whether her designs upon Ackroyd’s silver had been strictly honourable I neither knew nor cared. What did interest me was the fact that Miss Russell must have entered the drawing room by the window, and that I had not been wrong when I judged her to be out of breath with running. Where had she been? I thought of the summerhouse and the scrap of cambric.
“I wonder if Miss Russell has had her handkerchiefs starched!” I exclaimed on the spur of the moment.
Mrs. Ackroyd’s start recalled me to myself, and I rose.
“You think you can explain to M. Poirot?” she asked anxiously.
“Oh, certainly. Absolutely.”
I got away at last, after being forced to listen to more justifications of her conduct.
The parlour maid was in the hall, and it was she who helped me on with my overcoat. I observed her more closely than I had done heretofore. It was clear that she had been crying.