“Exactly,” cried Poirot. “That is what I seek to arrive at. Would any man use such a phrase in talking to another? Impossible that that should be part of a real conversation. Now, if he had been dictating a letter⁠—”

“You mean he was reading a letter aloud,” said Raymond slowly. “Even so, he must have been reading to someone.”

“But why? We have no evidence that there was anyone else in the room. No other voice but Mr. Ackroyd’s was heard, remember.”

“Surely a man wouldn’t read letters of that type aloud to himself⁠—not unless he was⁠—well⁠—going balmy.”

“You have all forgotten one thing,” said Poirot softly: “the stranger who called at the house the preceding Wednesday.”

They all stared at him.