My place at table was between Mrs. Ackroyd and Flora. Blunt was on Mrs. Ackroyd’s other side, and Geoffrey Raymond next to him.

Dinner was not a cheerful affair. Ackroyd was visibly preoccupied. He looked wretched, and ate next to nothing. Mrs. Ackroyd, Raymond, and I kept the conversation going. Flora seemed affected by her uncle’s depression, and Blunt relapsed into his usual taciturnity.

Immediately after dinner Ackroyd slipped his arm through mine and led me off to his study.

“Once we’ve had coffee, we shan’t be disturbed again,” he explained. “I told Raymond to see to it that we shouldn’t be interrupted.”