Ackroyd, his finger on the sheet to turn it over, paused.
“Sheppard, forgive me, but I must read this alone,” he said unsteadily. “It was meant for my eyes, and my eyes only.”
He put the letter in the envelope and laid it on the table. “Later, when I am alone.”
“No,” I cried impulsively, “read it now.”
Ackroyd stared at me in some surprise.
“I beg your pardon,” I said, reddening. “I do not mean read it aloud to me. But read it through whilst I am still here.”
Ackroyd shook his head. “No, I’d rather wait.”
But for some reason, obscure to myself, I continued to urge him.
“At least, read the name of the man,” I said.
Now Ackroyd is essentially pigheaded. The more you urge him to do a thing, the more determined he is not to do it. All my arguments were in vain.
The letter had been brought in at twenty minutes to nine. It was just on ten minutes to nine when I left him, the letter still unread. I hesitated with my hand on the door handle, looking back and wondering if there was anything I had left undone. I could think of nothing. With a shake of the head I passed out and closed the door behind me.
I was startled by seeing the figure of Parker close at hand. He looked embarrassed, and it occurred to me that he might have been listening at the door.
What a fat, smug, oily face the man had, and surely there was something decidedly shifty in his eye.