“Yes, miss,” agreed Parker. “Your hand was still on the handle as it is now.”
“Then allez ,” said Poirot. “Play me the little comedy.”
Flora stood with her hand on the door handle, and Parker came stepping through the door from the hall, bearing the tray.
He stopped just inside the door. Flora spoke.
“Oh! Parker. Mr. Ackroyd doesn’t want to be disturbed again tonight.”
“Is that right?” she added in an undertone.
“To the best of my recollection, Miss Flora,” said Parker, “but I fancy you used the word evening instead of night.” Then, raising his voice in a somewhat theatrical fashion: “Very good, miss. Shall I lock up as usual?”
“Yes, please.”
Parker retired through the door. Flora followed him, and started to ascend the main staircase.
“Is that enough?” she asked over her shoulder.
“Admirable,” declared the little man, rubbing his hands. “By the way, Parker, are you sure there were two glasses on the tray that evening? Who was the second one for?”
“I always bring two glasses, sir,” said Parker. “Is there anything further?”
“Nothing. I thank you.”
Parker withdrew, dignified to the last.
Poirot stood in the middle of the hall frowning. Flora came down and joined us.