“The fire, my friend. Ackroyd himself may have destroyed that letter, blue envelope and all, after you left him.”

“I hardly think that likely,” I said slowly. “And yet⁠—of course, it may be so. He might have changed his mind.”

We had just arrived at my house, and on the spur of the moment I invited Poirot to come in and take pot luck.

I thought Caroline would be pleased with me, but it is hard to satisfy one’s womenfolk. It appears that we were eating chops for lunch⁠—the kitchen staff being regaled on tripe and onions. And two chops set before three people are productive of embarrassment.