THE MURDER OF ROGER ACKROYD
"You've put the latch across?"
"Yes, yes. What's the matter with you, Ackroyd?"
The door had just closed behind Parker, or I would not have put the question.
Ackroyd waited just a minute before replying.
"I'm in hell," he said slowly, after a minute. "No, don't bother with those damned tablets. I only said that for Parker. Servants are so curious. Come here and sit down. The door's closed too, isn't it?"
"Yes. Nobody can overhear; don't be uneasy."
"Sheppard, nobody knows what I've gone through in the last twenty-four hours. If a man's house ever fell in ruins about him, mine has about me. This business of Ralph's is the last straw. But we won't talk about that now. It's the other—the other———! I don't know what to do about it. And I've got to make up my mind soon."
"What's the trouble?"
Ackroyd remained silent for a minute or two. He seemed curiously averse to begin. When he did speak, the question he asked came as a complete surprise. It was the last thing I expected.
"Sheppard, you attended Ashley Ferrars in his last illness, didn't you?"
"Yes, I did."
He seemed to find even greater difficulty in framing his next question.
"Did you never suspect—did it ever enter your head—that—well, that he might have been poisoned?"
I was silent for a minute or two. Then I made up my mind what to say. Roger Ackroyd was not Caroline.
[40]
