quite a little flutter on some horses this year—very successful. If you remember, sir, a rank outsider won the Jubilee. I was fortunate enough to back it—£20.”
Poirot handed him back the book.
“I will wish you good morning. I believe that you have told me the truth. If you have not—so much the worse for you, my friend.”
When Parker had departed, Poirot picked up his overcoat once more.
“Going out again?” I asked.
“Yes, we will pay a little visit to the good M. Hammond.”
“You believe Parker’s story?”
“It is credible enough on the face of it. It seems clear that unless he is a very good actor indeed—he genuinely believes it was Ackroyd himself who was the victim of blackmail. If so, he knows nothing at all about the Mrs. Ferrars business.”
“Then in that case—who—”
“ Précisément! Who? But our visit to M. Hammond will accomplish one purpose. It will either clear Parker completely or else—”
“Well?”
“I fall into the bad habit of leaving my sentences unfinished this morning,” said Poirot apologetically. “You must bear with me.”
“By the way,” I said, rather sheepishly, “I’ve got a confession to make. I’m afraid I have inadvertently let out something about that ring.”
“What ring?”