THE MURDER OF ROGER ACKROYD
“Hardly. I’ve got three patients to see still, and I must be back by twelve to see my surgery patients.”
“Then this afternoon—no, better still, dine to-night. At 7.30? Will that suit you?”
“Yes—I can manage that all right. What’s wrong? Is it Ralph?”
I hardly knew why I said that—except, perhaps, that it had so often been Ralph.
Ackroyd stared blankly at me as though he hardly understood. I began to realize that there must be something very wrong indeed somewhere. I had never seen Ackroyd so upset before.
“Ralph?” he said vaguely. “Oh! no, it’s not Ralph. Ralph’s in London——— Damn! Here’s old Miss Ganett coming. I don’t want to have to talk to her about this ghastly business. See you to-night, Sheppard. Seven-thirty.”
I nodded, and he hurried away, leaving me wondering. Ralph in London? But he had certainly been in King’s Abbot the preceding afternoon. He must have gone back to town last night or early this morning, and yet Ackroyd’s manner had conveyed quite a different impression. He had spoken as though Ralph had not been near the place for months.
I had no time to puzzle the matter out further. Miss Ganett was upon me, thirsting for information. Miss Ganett has all the characteristics of my sister Caroline, but she lacks that unerring aim in jumping to conclusions which lends a touch of greatness to Caroline’s
[12]
