“Not on my account, doctor. No, it’s just this,” he went on, seating himself at a wave of invitation from Poirot, “I’ve got a confession to make.”
“ En verité? ” said Poirot, with an air of polite interest.
“Oh, it’s of no consequence, really. But, as a matter of fact, my conscience has been pricking me ever since yesterday afternoon. You accused us all of keeping back something, M. Poirot. I plead guilty. I’ve had something up my sleeve.”
“And what is that, M. Raymond?”
“As I say, it’s nothing of consequence—just this. I was in debt—badly, and that legacy came in the nick of time. Five hundred pounds puts me on my feet again with a little to spare.”
He smiled at us both with that engaging frankness that made him such a likeable youngster.
“You know how it is. Suspicious-looking policemen—don’t like to admit you were hard up for money—think it will look bad to them. But I was a fool, really, because Blunt and I were in the billiard room from a quarter to ten onwards, so I’ve got a watertight alibi and nothing to fear. Still, when you thundered out that stuff about concealing things, I felt a nasty prick of conscience, and I thought I’d like to get it off my mind.”
He got up again and stood smiling at us.
“You are a very wise young man,” said Poirot, nodding at him with approval. “See you, when I know that anyone is hiding things from me, I suspect that the thing hidden may be something very bad indeed. You have done well.”
“I’m glad I’m cleared from suspicion,” laughed Raymond. “I’ll be off now.”