alive?’ And the person who did is regarded with suspicion. Now, Flora Ackroyd last saw her uncle alive. It might have looked very nasty for her—very nasty indeed. It’s my opinion—and I give it for what it’s worth, that Ralph Paton is staying away on her account, to draw suspicion away from her.”
“Come, now,” I protested mildly, “you surely can’t suggest that a young girl like Flora Ackroyd is capable of stabbing her uncle in cold blood?”
“Well, I don’t know,” said Miss Gannett. “I’ve just been reading a book from the library about the underworld of Paris, and it says that some of the worst women criminals are young girls with the faces of angels.”
“That’s in France,” said Caroline instantly.
“Just so,” said the colonel. “Now, I’ll tell you a very curious thing—a story that was going round the Bazaars in India. …”
The colonel’s story was one of interminable length, and of curiously little interest. A thing that happened in India many years ago cannot compare for a moment with an event that took place in King’s Abbot the day before yesterday.
It was Caroline who brought the colonel’s story to a close by fortunately going mah-jongg. After the slight unpleasantness always caused by my corrections of Caroline’s somewhat faulty arithmetic, we started a new hand.
“East Wind passes,” said Caroline. “I’ve got an idea of my own about Ralph Paton. Three Characters. But I’m keeping it to myself for the present.”
“Are you, dear?” said Miss Gannett. “Chow—I mean Pung.”
“Yes,” said Caroline firmly.