“I went back to the house. Major Blunt was walking up and down the terrace smoking, so I made a detour to get round to the side door. It was just then on half-past nine, as I tell you.”
Poirot nodded again. He made a note or two in a microscopic pocketbook.
“I think that is all,” he said thoughtfully.
“Ought I—” she hesitated. “Ought I to tell all this to Inspector Raglan?”
“It may come to that. But let us not be in a hurry. Let us proceed slowly, with due order and method. Charles Kent is not yet formally charged with murder. Circumstances may arise which will render your story unnecessary.”
Miss Russell rose. “Thank you very much, M. Poirot,” she said. “You have been very kind—very kind indeed. You—you do believe me, don’t you? That Charles had nothing to do with this wicked murder!”
“There seems no doubt that the man who was talking to Mr. Ackroyd in the library at nine-thirty could not possibly have been your son. Be of good courage, mademoiselle. All will yet be