“Oh!” I said, rather taken aback.
“And on your reticence,” he added.
I said “Oh!” again.
“Not so did Hastings write,” continued my friend. “On every page, many, many times was the word ‘I.’ What he thought—what he did. But you—you have kept your personality in the background; only once or twice does it obtrude—in scenes of home life, shall we say?”
I blushed a little before the twinkle of his eye.
“What do you really think of the stuff?” I asked nervously.
“You want my candid opinion?”
“Yes.”
Poirot laid his jesting manner aside.
“A very meticulous and accurate account,” he said kindly. “You have recorded all the facts faithfully and exactly—though you have shown yourself becomingly reticent as to your own share in them.”
“And it has helped you?”
“Yes. I may say that it has helped me considerably. Come, we must go over to my house and set the stage for my little performance.”
Caroline was in the hall. I think she hoped that she might be invited to accompany us. Poirot dealt with the situation tactfully.
“I should much like to have had you present, mademoiselle,” he said regretfully, “but at this juncture it would not be wise. See you, all these people tonight are suspects. Amongst them, I shall find the person who killed Mr. Ackroyd.”