“Why do you look at me like that—as though you couldn’t believe? I may be a thief—but at any rate I’m real now. I’m not lying any more. I’m not pretending to be the kind of girl you like, young and innocent and simple. I don’t care if you never want to see me again. I hate myself, despise myself—but you’ve got to believe one thing, if speaking the truth would have made things better for Ralph, I would have spoken out. But I’ve seen all along that it wouldn’t be better for Ralph—it makes the case against him blacker than ever. I was not doing him any harm by sticking to my lie.”
“Ralph,” said Blunt. “I see—always Ralph.”
“You don’t understand,” said Flora hopelessly. “You never will.”
She turned to the inspector.
“I admit everything; I was at my wits’ end for money. I never saw my uncle that evening after he left the dinner table. As to the money, you can take what steps you please. Nothing could be worse than it is now!”
Suddenly she broke down again, hid her face in her hands, and rushed from the room.
“Well,” said the inspector in a flat tone, “so that’s that.”
He seemed rather at a loss what to do next.
Blunt came forward.
“Inspector Raglan,” he said quietly, “that money was given to me by Mr. Ackroyd for a special purpose. Miss Ackroyd never touched it. When she says she did, she is lying with the idea of shielding Captain Paton. The truth is as I said, and I am prepared to go into the witness-box and swear to it.”
He made a kind of jerky bow, then turning abruptly he left the room.