I coughed.

“As far as that goes⁠—” I began doubtfully.

He spun round on me.

“What? What are you going to say?”

“Nothing, Nothing. Only that, strictly speaking, Mrs. Ferrars in her letter mentioned a person ⁠—she didn’t actually specify a man. But we took it for granted, Ackroyd and I, that it was a man.”

Poirot did not seem to be listening to me. He was muttering to himself again. “But then it is possible after all⁠—yes, certainly it is possible⁠—but then⁠—ah! I must rearrange my ideas. Method, order; never have I needed them more. Everything must fit in⁠—in its appointed place⁠—otherwise I am on the wrong tack.”