"Dr. Sheppard has been a model of discretion," said Poirot dryly. "But me, I discover all the little secrets. It is my business."
"Now we can have your story of what happened that night," said Raymond impatiently.
"You know it already,” said Ralph. "There's very little for me to add. I left the summer-house about nine-forty-five, and tramped about the lanes, trying to make up my mind as to what to do next—what line to take. I'm bound to admit that I've not the shadow of an alibi, but I give you my solemn word that I never went to the study, that I never saw my stepfather alive—or dead. Whatever the world thinks, I'd like all of you to believe me."
"No alibi," murmured Raymond. "That's bad. I believe you, of course, but—it's a bad business."
"It makes things very simple, though," said Poirot, in a cheerful voice. "Very simple indeed."
We all stared at him.
"You see what I mean? No? Just this—to save Captain Paton the real criminal must confess."
He beamed round at us all.
"But yes—I mean what I say. See now, I did not invite Inspector Raglan to be present. That was for a reason. I did not want to tell him all that I knew—at least I did not want to tell him to-night."
He leaned forward, and suddenly his voice and his whole personality changed. He suddenly became dangerous.
"I who speak to you—I know the murderer of Mr.
[287]
