“Yes,” agreed Poirot. “A mere bagatelle⁠—but if he had not been in the billiard room⁠—who knows? After all, many crimes have been committed for the sake of less than five hundred pounds. It all depends on what sum is sufficient to break a man. A question of relativity, is it not so? Have you reflected, my friend, that many people in that house stood to benefit by Mr. Ackroyd’s death? Mrs. Ackroyd, Miss Flora, young Mr. Raymond, the housekeeper, Miss Russell. Only one, in fact, does not, Major Blunt.”

His tone in uttering that name was so peculiar that I looked up, puzzled.

“I don’t understand you,” I said.

“Two of the people I accused have given me the truth.”

“You think Major Blunt has something to conceal also?”