THE MURDER OF ROGER ACKROYD
nouncements beginning with her favorite words, "Of course."
An old woman with an immense Breton cap opened the door of The Larches to us. M. Poirot was at home, it seemed.
We were ushered into a little sitting-room arranged with formal precision, and there, after the lapse of a minute or so, my friend of yesterday came to us.
"Monsieur le docteur," he said, smiling. "Mademoiselle."
He bowed to Flora.
"Perhaps," I began, "you have heard of the tragedy which occurred last night."
His face grew grave.
"But certainly I have heard. It is horrible. I offer mademoiselle all my sympathy. In what way can I serve you?"
"Miss Ackroyd," I said, "wants you to—to———"
"To find the murderer," said Flora in a clear voice.
"I see," said the little man. "But the police will do that, will they not?"
"They might make a mistake," said Flora. "They are on their way to make a mistake now, I think. Please, M. Poirot, won't you help us? If—if it is a question of money———"
Poirot held up his hand.
"Not that, I beg of you, mademoiselle. Not that I do not care for money." His eyes showed a momentary twinkle. "Money, it means much to me and always has done. No, if I go into this, you must understand one
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