Poirot raised a hand protestingly. “ Mais oui, mais oui. I heard. I am not deaf⁠—or stupid, thank the good God! But you see, you approach the matter from the wrong⁠—the wrong⁠—premises, is not that the word?”

The inspector stared at him heavily. “I don’t see how you make that out. Look here, we know Mr. Ackroyd was alive at a quarter to ten. You admit that, don’t you?”

Poirot looked at him for a moment, then shook his head with a quick smile. “I admit nothing that is not⁠— proved !”

“Well, we’ve got proof enough of that. We’ve got Miss Flora Ackroyd’s evidence.”

“That she said goodnight to her uncle? But me⁠—I do not always believe what a young lady tells me⁠—no, not even when she is charming and beautiful.”