“Yes,” he went on, in a low, monotonous voice, “she confessed everything. It seems that there is one person who has known all along⁠—who has been blackmailing her for huge sums. It was the strain of that that drove her nearly mad.”

“Who was the man?”

Suddenly before my eyes there arose the picture of Ralph Paton and Mrs. Ferrars side by side. Their heads so close together. I felt a momentary throb of anxiety. Supposing⁠—oh! but surely that was impossible. I remembered the frankness of Ralph’s greeting that very afternoon. Absurd!

“She wouldn’t tell me his name,” said Ackroyd slowly. “As a matter of fact, she didn’t actually say that it was a man. But of course⁠—”

“Of course,” I agreed. “It must have been a man. And you’ve no suspicion at all?”