MRS. ACKROYD
would provide for me, I didn't know. I thought that if only I could glance over a copy of his will—not in any sense of vulgar prying—but just so that I could make my own arrangements."
She glanced sideways at me. The position was now very delicate indeed. Fortunately words, ingeniously used, will serve to mask the ugliness of naked facts.
"I could only tell this to you, dear Dr. Sheppard," said Mrs. Ackroyd rapidly. "I can trust you not to misjudge me, and to represent the matter in the right light to M. Poirot. It was on Friday afternoon———"
She came to a stop and swallowed uncertainly.
"Yes," I repeated encouragingly. "On Friday afternoon. Well?"
"Every one was out, or so I thought. And I went into Roger's study—I had some real reason for going there—I mean, there was nothing underhand about it. And as I saw all the papers heaped on the desk, it just came to me, like a flash: 'I wonder if Roger keeps his will in one of the drawers of the desk.' I'm so impulsive, always was, from a child. I do things on the spur of the moment. He'd left his keys—very careless of him—in the lock of the top drawer."
"I see," I said helpfully. "So you searched the desk. Did you find the will?"
Mrs. Ackroyd gave a little scream, and I realized that I had not been sufficiently diplomatic.
"How dreadful it sounds. But it wasn't at all like that really."
[171]
