We found Mrs Ackroyd in the hall. With her was a small dried-up little man, with an aggressive chin and sharp grey eyes, and "lawyer" written all over him.

"This is M. Poirot, Mother," said Flora. "I told you about him this morning."

"Oh! yes," said Mrs Ackroyd vaguely. "Of course, my dear, of course. He is to find Ralph, is he not?"

"Mr Hammond is staying to lunch with us," said Mrs Ackroyd. "You know Major Blunt, Mr Hammond? And dear Doctor Sheppard -- also a close friend of poor Roger's. And, let me see " She paused, surveying Hercule Poirot in some perplexity.

"Oh! my dear," cried her mother. "Please! My poor nerves. I am a wreck this morning, a positive wreck. Such a dreadful thing to happen. I can't help feeling that it must have been an accident of some kind. Roger was so fond of handling queer curios. His hand must have slipped, or something."

"He is to find out who killed Uncle," said Flora.

This theory was received in polite silence. I saw Poirot edge up to the lawyer, and speak to him in a confidential undertone. They moved aside into the embrasure of the window. I joined them -- then hesitated.

The lawyer shrugged his shoulders.

Poirot shook his head. "Not so. I am acting in the interests of justice. Miss Ackroyd has asked me to investigate the death of her uncle.

"I cannot seriously believe that Captain Paton can be concerned in this crime," he said, "however strong the circumstantial evidence against him may be. The mere fact that he was hard pressed for money --"

"Perhaps I'm intruding," I said.

"Was he hard pressed for money?" interpolated Poirot quickly.

"Not at all," cried Poirot heartily. "You and I, M. Ie docteur, we investigate this affair side by side. Without you I should be lost. I desire a little information from the good Mr Hammond."

Mr Hammond seemed slightly taken aback.

"You are acting of behalf of Captain Ralph Paton, I understand," said the lawyer cautiously.

"It was a chronic condition with Ralph Paton," he said dryly. "Money went through his hands like water. He was always applying to his stepfather."

"Had he done so of late? During the last year, for instance?"

"I cannot say. Mr Ackroyd did not mention the fact to me."

"Such as --?" interrupted Poirot.

"I comprehend. Mr Hammond, I take it that you are acquainted with the provisions of Mr Ackroyd's will?"

"Certainly. That is my principal business here today."

"They are quite simple. Shorn of legal phraseology, and after paying certain legacies and bequests --"

"Mr Hammond seemed a little surprised.

Poirot held up his hand. "Ah! the charitable bequests, they interest me not."

"Quite so. The income on ten thousand pounds' worth of shares to be paid to Mrs Cecil Ackroyd during her lifetime. Miss Flora Ackroyd inherits twenty thousand pounds outright. The residue -- including this property, and the shares in Ackroyd and Son -- to his adopted son, Ralph Paton."

"Then, seeing that I am acting for Miss Ackroyd, you will not object to telling me the terms of that will?"

"A thousand pounds to his housekeeper. Miss Russell; fifty pounds to the cook, Emma Cooper; five hundred pounds to his secretary, Mr Geoffrey Raymond. Then to various hospitals --"

"Mr Ackroyd possessed a large fortune?"

"A very large fortune. Captain Paton will be an exceedingly wealthy young man."

There was a silence. Poirot and the lawyer looked at each other.

"Mr Hammond," came Mrs Ackroyd's voice plaintively from the fireplace.

The lawyer answered the summons. Poirot took my arm and drew me right into the window.

"Regard the irises," he remarked in a rather loud voice. Magnificent, are they not? A straight and pleasing effect."

"Good, we will be colleagues then. In a minute or two I fancy Major Blunt will join us. He is not happy with the good mamma. Now there are some things I want to know but I do not wish to seem to want to know them. You comprehend? So it will be your part to ask the questions."

"What questions do you want me to ask?" I asked apprehensively.

At the same time I felt the pressure of his hand on my arm, and he added in a low tone: "Do you really wish to aid me? To take part in this investigation?"

"Yes, indeed," I said eagerly. "There's nothing I should like better. You don't know what a dull old fogey's life I lead. Never anything out of the ordinary."

"Went with Ackroyd to call. Last Tuesday, think it was. Fascinating woman -- but something queer about her. Deep -- one would never know what she was up to."

"Speak of her in a natural fashion. Ask him if he was down here when her husband died. You understand the kind of thing I mean. And while he replies, watch his face without seeming to watch it. C'est compris?"

I stopped to examine a late rose.

Blunt nodded his head.

"How things change in the course of a day or two," I observed. "I was up here last Wednesday, I remember, walking up and down this same terrace. Ackroyd was with me -- full of spirits. And now -- three days later -- Ackroyd's dead, poor fellow. Mrs Ferrars dead ~ you knew her, didn't you? But of course you did."

I suggested strolling on the terrace, and he acquiesced.

"I want you to introduce the name of Mrs Ferrars."

"Yes?"

There was no time for more, for at that minute, as Poirot had prophesied. Blunt left the others in his abrupt fashion and came over to us.

"Had you seen her since you'd been down this time?"

Poirot stayed behind.

"Which has been your particular trouble?" I asked.

"I'm not too flush just now, as a matter of fact. Came into a legacy a year ago, and like a fool let myself be persuaded into putting it into some wild-cat scheme."

"How -- changed?" I asked.

"Looked ten years older."

"No. From all I heard it would be good riddance. Uncharitable, perhaps, but the truth."

"Were you down here when her husband died?" I asked, trying to make the question sound as casual as possible.

I agreed. "Ashley Ferrars was by no means a pattern husband," I said cautiously.

"Oh! money! All the troubles in the world can be put down to money -- or the lack of it."

"Blackguard, I thought," said Blunt.

"Enough for what I want. I'm one of the lucky ones."

"Indeed."

"Last time I was here -- she and her husband had just come here to live." He paused a minute and then added: "Rum thing, she had changed a lot between then and now."

"No," I said, "only a man with more money than was good for him."

I looked into his steady grey eyes. Nothing there surely. I went on: "I suppose you'd met her before?"

Afterwards, Mrs Ackroyd took me aside and sat down with me on a sofa.

I sympathized, and narrated my own similar trouble.

We all trooped into the dining-room. It seemed incredible that less than twenty-four hours had passed since I last sat at that table.

Poirot drew me back a little.

"He's all right," I said. "I'm sure of it."

"Without doubt, without doubt," said Poirot soothingly. "Do not upset yourself." He spoke as though to a fractious child.

"I can't help feeling a little hurt," she murmured, producing a handkerchief of the kind obviously not meant to be cried into. "Hurt, I mean, by Roger's lack of confidence in me. That twenty thousand pounds ought to have been left to me -- not to Flora. A mother could be trusted to safeguard the interests of her child. A lack of trust, I call it."

"Eh! bien?"

"He had a legacy just a year ago," I said, "But Why not? Why shouldn't he? I'll swear the man is perfectly square and above board."

"Nothing -- disturbing?"

Then the gong pealed out, and we all went in to lunch.

"As poor Cecil's widow, I think my feelings ought to have been considered," said the lady, touching her eyelashes gingerly with the handkerchief. "But Roger was always most peculiar -- not to say mean -- about money matters. It has been a most difficult position for both Flora and myself. He did not even give the poor child an allowance. He would pay her bills, you know, and even that with a good deal of reluctance and asking what she wanted all those fal-lals for so like a man -- but -- now I've forgotten what it was I was going to say! Oh, yes, not a penny we could call our own, you know. Flora resented it -- yes, I must say she resented it -- very strongly. Though devoted to her uncle, of course. But any girl would have resented it. Yes, I must say Roger had very strange ideas about money. He wouldn't even buy new face towels, though I told him the old ones were in boles. And then," proceeded Mrs Ackroyd, with a sudden leap highly characteristic of her conversation, "to leave all that money -- a thousand pounds, fancy, a thousand pounds! -- to that woman."

"You forget, Mrs Ackroyd," I said, "Flora was Ackroyd's own niece, a blood relation. It would have been different had you been his sister instead of his sister-in-law."

"What woman?"

I began to wonder if there was any chance of stemming Mrs Ackroyd's eloquence, and getting away.

"About the inquest," I said. "Where would you prefer it to be held? Here, or at the Three Boars?"

"That Russell woman. Something very queer about her, and so I've always said. But Roger wouldn't hear a word against her. Said she was a woman of great force of character, and that he admired and respected her. He was always going on about her rectitude and independence and moral worth. I think there's something fishy about her. She was certainly doing her best to marry Roger. But I soon put a stop to that. She always hated me. Naturally. I saw through her."

Mrs Ackroyd stared at me with a dropped jaw. "The inquest?" she asked, the picture of consternation. "But surely there won't have to be an inquest?"

Mr Hammond provided the necessary diversion by coming up to say goodbye. I seized my chance and rose also.

Mr Hammond gave a dry little cough and murmured, "Inevitable. Under the circumstances," in two short little barks.

"I don't know what will be necessary," I answered. "I imagine Mr Raymond will take the brunt of it off you. He knows all the circumstances, and can give formal evidence of identification."

She gave a little cry.

"No theory of accident will hold water for a minute."

The lawyer assented with a little bow.

"There are limits to my powers of arrangement," I said drily.

"If there's an inquest, I -- I shan't have to answer questions and all that, shall I?" she asked.

Mrs Ackroyd looked at me in distress. I had no patience with what I thought was her silly fear of unpleasantness.

"But surely Dr Sheppard can arrange --"

"If his death was an accident --"

"He was murdered, Mrs Ackroyd," I said brutally.

"I really don't think there is anything to dread, Mrs Ackroyd," he said. "You will be spared all the unpleasantness. Now, as to the question of money, have you all you need for the present? I mean," he added, as she looked at him inquiringly, "ready money. Cash, you know. If not, I can arrange to let you have whatever you require."

"Yes. For wages and other expenses due today. At the moment it is still intact."

"A hundred pounds?"

"No, he always kept his cash in his bedroom. In an old collar box, to be accurate. Funny idea, wasn't it?"

"That ought to be all right," said Raymond, who was standing by. "Mr Ackroyd cashed a cheque for a hundred pounds yesterday."

"Where is this money? In his desk?"

"Certainly," agreed the secretary. "I'll take you up now… Oh! I forgot. The door's locked."

"I think," said the lawyer, "we ought to make sure the money is there before I leave."

Inquiry from Parker elicited the information that Inspector Raglan was in the housekeeper's room asking a few supplementary questions. A few minutes later the inspector joined the party in the hall, bringing the key with him. He unlocked the door and we passed into the lobby and up the small staircase. At the top of the stairs the door into Ackroyd's bedroom stood open. Inside the room it was dark, the curtains were drawn, and the bed was turned down just as it had been last night. The inspector drew the curtains, letting in the sunlight, and Geoffrey Raymond went to the top drawer of a rosewood bureau.

"Here is the money," he said, taking out a fat roll of notes. "You will find the hundred intact, I know, for Mr Ackroyd put it in the collar-box in my presence last night when he was dressing for dinner, and of course it has not been touched since."

Raymond stared at him. "Impossible," he cried, springing forward. Taking the notes from the other's hand, he counted them aloud.

Mr Hammond had been right. The total amounted to sixty pounds.

"Oh! quite so," said the inspector hastily.

"A hundred pounds, you said. But there is only sixty here."

The secretary flushed a little.

"But -- I can't understand it," cried the secretary, bewildered.

"He kept his money like that, in an unlocked drawer. Just fancy," commented the inspector.

Raymond opened the drawer, took out a round leather collar-box from the back of it, and opening it, drew out a thick wallet.

Mr Hammond took the roll from him and counted it. He looked up sharply.

"Mr Ackroyd had perfect faith in the honesty of all the servants," he said hotly.

"No."

"I suppose the housemaid would turn down the bed."

Poirot asked a question. "You saw Mr Ackroyd put this money away last night when he was dressing for dinner? You are sure he had not paid away any of it already?"

"That's the matter in a nutshell," agreed the inspector. He turned to Mrs Ackroyd. "Which of the servants would come in here yesterday evening?"

"Who is she? What do you know about her?"

"I'm sure he hadn't. He even said, "I don't want to take a hundred pounds down to dinner with me. Too bulgy."

"None of them leaving, or anything like that?"

"I think we ought to clear this matter up," said the inspector. "If Mr Ackroyd paid that money away himself, it may have a bearing on the mystery of the crime. The other servants all right, as far as you know?"

"She's not been here very long," said Mrs Ackroyd. "But ^e's a nice ordinary country girl."

"Not missed anything before?"

"Oh, I think so."

"Then the affair is very simple," remarked Poirot. "Either he paid out that forty pounds some time last evening, or else it has been stolen."

"She, too, was a most superior girl. Very quiet and ladylike. An excellent worker."

Miss Russell pursed up her lips. "It was none of my doing. I understand Mr Ackroyd found fault with her yesterday afternoon. It was her duty to do the study, and she disarranged some of the papers on his desk, I believe. He was very annoyed about it, and she gave notice. At least, that is what I understood from her, but perhaps you'd like to see her yourselves?"

Miss Russell received us with her usual sangfroid.

"Oh, no. I have nothing to do with the servants. Miss Russell attends to the household matters."

Elsie Dale had been at Fernly five months. A nice girl, quick at her duties, and most respectable. Good references. The last girl in the world to take anything not belonging to her.

"The parlourmaid is leaving."

The inspector remained lost in thought for a minute or two. Then he nodded his head and remarked, "I think I'd better have a word with Miss Russell, and I'll see the girl Dale as well."

"When?"

"To you?"

What about the parlourmaid?

"She gave notice yesterday, I believe."

Poirot and I accompanied him to the housekeeper's room.

"Then why is she leaving?" asked the inspector.

"No, sir. That is Elsie's work. I never went near that part of the house."

"I disarranged some papers on Mr Ackroyd's desk. He was very angry about it, and I said I had better leave. He told me to go as soon as possible."

"Were you in Mr Ackroyd's bedroom at all last night? Tidying up or anything?"

"Why is that?"

"I know nothing about any money. If you think I took it, and that that is why Mr Ackroyd dismissed me, you are wrong."

"You are Ursula Bourne?" asked the inspector.

"I'm not accusing you of taking it, my girl," said the inspector. "Don't flare up so."

"Yes, sir."

"I understand you are leaving?"

At last I saw her roused. A wave of colour swept over her face.

"Yes, sir."

"I must tell you, my girl, that a large sum of money is missing from Mr Ackroyd's room."

The inspector assented. I had already noticed the girl when she was waiting on us at lunch. A tall girl, with a lot of brown hair rolled tightly away at the back of her neck, and very steady grey eyes. She came in answer to the housekeeper's summons, and stood very straight with those same grey eyes fixed on us.

"Twenty minutes? Half an hour?"

Poirot suddenly interposed. "It was yesterday afternoon that Mr Ackroyd dismissed you -- or you dismissed yourself, was it not?" he asked.

"Thank you, mademoiselle." I looked curiously at him. He was rearranging a few objects on the table, setting them straight with precise fingers. His eyes were shining.

"Something like that."

"Not longer than half an hour, certainly."

The girl nodded.

Without answering the first question, Miss Russell moved to an adjacent bureau, opened one of the drawers, and took out a handful of letters clipped together with a patent fastener. She selected one and handed it to the inspector.

"You can search my things if you like," she said disdainfully. "But you won't find anything."

"Yes, the interview between you and Mr Ackroyd in the study?"

"I -- I don't know."

"How long did the interview last?"

"Not longer?"

"The interview?"

"That'll do," said the inspector.

Ursula Bourne disappeared. The inspector turned to Miss Russell.

"How long has she been here? Have you got a copy of the reference you had with her?"

The girl looked at him coldly.

"Quite good country people," said Miss Russell.

"Well," said the inspector, handing it back, "let's have a look at the other one, Elsie Dale."

"I don't think there's anything wrong with her," observed the inspector, after he had dismissed her. "What about Parker?"

Elsie Dale was a big fair girl, with a pleasant but slightly stupid face. She answered our questions readily enough, and showed much distress and concern at the loss of the money.

Miss Russell pursed her lips together and made no reply.

"I've a feeling there's something wrong about that man," the inspector continued thoughtfully. "The trouble is that I don't quite see when he got his opportunity. He'd be busy with his duties immediately after dinner, and he'd got a pretty good alibi all through the evening. I know, for I've been devoting particular attention to it. Well, thank you very much. Miss Russell. We'll leave things as they are for the present. It's highly probable Mr Ackroyd paid that money away himself."

"H'm," said he. "Reads all right. Mrs Richard Folliott, Marby Grange, Marby. Who's this woman?"

"She seemed a nice girl -- yes." Then, after a minute's silence, he took something from his pocket and handed it to me.

Poirot repeated my words, but whereas I had laid a slight stress on the fourth word, he put it on the second.

I left the house with Poirot.

"Which girl? The parlourmaid?"

"Yes, but --" I paused.

"It strikes you as odd that Ackroyd should have flown into a rage about so trivial a matter?"

"Of course," I admitted, "we don't know what those papers may have been. But Raymond certainly said --"

The housekeeper bade us a dry good afternoon, and we took our leave.

"The secretary said there were no papers of particular importance on the desk," said Poirot quietly.

"Yes, it does rather."

"Leave M. Raymond out of it for a minute. What did you think of that girl?"

"Yes, the parlourmaid. Ursula Bourne."

"She seemed a nice girl," I said hesitatingly.

"I wonder," I said, breaking the silence, "what the papers the girl disarranged could have been for Ackroyd to have got into such a state about them? I wonder if there is any clue there to the mystery."

"But was it a trivial matter?"

"Dr Sheppard, I dare to think anything. Ursula Bourne may have killed Mr Ackroyd, but I confess I can see no motive for her doing so. Can you?" He looked at me very hard -- so hard that I felt uncomfortable.

"Nothing, Nothing. Only that, strictly speaking, Mrs Ferrars in her letter mentioned a person -- she didn't actually specify a man. But we took it for granted, Ackroyd and I, that it was a man."

I coughed.

"As far as that goes --" I began doubtfully.

"You may not have noticed it at the time, my good friend, but there was one person on this list whose alibi had no kind of confirmation. Ursula Bourne."

Following the pointing finger, I saw a small cross marked in pencil opposite the name Ursula Bourne.

"No motive whatsoever," I said firmly.

He spun round on me.

"Can you?" he repeated.

"You don't think --?"

His gaze relaxed. He frowned and murmured to himself: "Since the blackmailer was a man, it follows that she cannot be the blackmailer, then --"

"What? What are you going to say?"

"See, my friend, I will show you something. Look there." The paper he had handed me was that compiled by the inspector and given by him to Poirot that morning.

"Would it be possible for you to go there? Tomorrow, say?"

"Very well. But -- I don't much care for the job."

"See this Mrs Folliott. Find out all you can about Ursula Bourne."

"It is not the time to make difficulties. A man's life may hang on this."

"How far away?"

"Oh! -- fourteen miles, perhaps."

Poirot did not seem to be listening to me. He was muttering to himself again. "But then it is possible after all -- yes, certainly it is possible -- but then -- ah! I must rearrange my ideas. Method, order, never have I needed them more. Everything must fit in -- in its appointed place -- otherwise I am on the wrong track." He broke off, and whirled round upon me again.

"Where is Marby?"

"Tomorrrow? Let me see, that's Sunday. Yes, I could arrange it. What do you want me to do there?"

"It's on the other side of Cranchester."

Poirot looked at me very gravely. "Do you want to know the truth?"

"Of course."

"Poor Ralph," I said with a sigh. "You believe him to be innocent, though?"

"Then you shall have it. My friend, everything points to the assumption that he is guilty."

Poirot nodded.

"What!" I exclaimed.

"Yes, that stupid inspector -- for he is stupid -- has everything pointing his way. I seek for the truth -- and the truth leads me every time to Ralph Paton. Motive, opportunity, means. But I will leave no stone unturned. I promised Mademoiselle Flora. And she was very sure, that little one. But very sure indeed."