THE MURDER OF ROGER ACKROYD
“But there’s another point. How am I to get hold of that scoundrel who drove her to death as surely as if he’d killed her. He knew of the first crime, and he fastened on to it like some obscene vulture. She’s paid the penalty. Is he to go scot-free?”
“I see,” I said slowly. “You want to hunt him down? It will mean a lot of publicity, you know.”
“Yes, I've thought of that. I’ve zigzagged to and fro in my mind.”
“I agree with you that the villain ought to be punished, but the cost has got to be reckoned.”
Ackroyd rose and walked up and down. Presently he sank into the chair again.
“Look here, Sheppard, suppose we leave it like this. If no word comes from her, we’ll let the dead things be.”
“What do you mean by word coming from her?” I asked curiously.
“I have the strongest impression that somewhere or somehow she must have left a message for me—before she went. I can’t argue about it, but there it is.”
I shook my head.
“She left no letter or word of any kind. I asked.”
“Sheppard, I'm convinced that she did. And more, I’ve a feeling that by deliberately choosing death, she wanted the whole thing to come out, if only to be revenged on the man who drove her to desperation. I believe that if I could have seen her then, she would have told me his name and bid me go for him for all I was worth.”
He looked at me.
[44]
