THE MURDER OF ROGER ACKROYD
directly facing me, which was, as I knew, the door of the drawing-room.
I noticed, just as I was turning the handle, a sound from within—the shutting down of a window, I took it to be. I noted it, I may say, quite mechanically, without attaching any importance to it at the time.
I opened the door and walked in. As I did so, I almost collided with Miss Russell, who was just coming out. We both apologized.
For the first time I found myself appraising the housekeeper and thinking what a handsome woman she must once have been—indeed, as far as that goes, still was. Her dark hair was unstreaked with gray, and when she had a color, as she had at this minute, the stern quality of her looks was not so apparent.
Quite subconsciously I wondered whether she had been out, for she was breathing hard, as though she had been running.
“I’m afraid I’m a few minutes early,” I said.
“Oh! I don’t think so. It’s gone half-past seven, Dr. Sheppard.” She paused a minute before saying, “I—didn’t know you were expected to dinner to-night. Mr. Ackroyd didn’t mention it.”
I received a vague impression that my dining there displeased her in some way, but I couldn’t imagine why.
“How’s the knee?” I inquired.
“Much the same, thank you, doctor. I must be going now. Mrs. Ackroyd will be down in a moment. I—I only came in here to see if the flowers were all right.”
She passed quickly out of the room. I strolled to the
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