“Speak of her in a natural fashion. Ask him if he was down here when her husband died. You understand the kind of thing I mean. And while he replies, watch his face without seeming to watch it. C’est compris? ”

There was no time for more, for at that minute, as Poirot had prophesied, Blunt left the others in his abrupt fashion and came over to us.

I suggested strolling on the terrace, and he acquiesced. Poirot stayed behind.

I stopped to examine a late rose.

“How things change in the course of a day or two,” I observed. “I was up here last Wednesday, I remember, walking up and down this same terrace. Ackroyd was with me⁠—full of spirits. And now⁠—three days later⁠—Ackroyd’s dead, poor fellow. Mrs. Ferrar’s dead⁠—you knew her, didn’t you? But of course you did.”