THE MURDER OF ROGER ACKROYD
with me—full of spirits. And now—three days later—Ackroyd's dead, poor fellow, Mrs. Ferrars's dead—you knew her, didn't you? But of course you did."
Blunt nodded his head.
"Had you seen her since you'd been down this time?"
"Went with Ackroyd to call. Last Tuesday, think it was. Fascinating woman—but something queer about her. Deep—one would never know what she was up to."
I looked into his steady gray eyes. Nothing there surely. I went on:—
"I suppose you'd met her before."
"Last time I was here—she and her husband had just come here to live." He paused a minute and then added: "Rum thing, she had changed a lot between then and now."
"How—changed?" I asked.
"Looked ten years older."
"Were you down here when her husband died?" I asked, trying to make the question sound as casual as possible.
"No. From all I heard it would be a good riddance, Uncharitable, perhaps, but the truth."
I agreed.
"Ashley Ferrars was by no means a pattern husband," I said cautiously.
"Blackguard, I thought," said Blunt.
"No," I said, "only a man with more money than was good for him."
"Oh! money! All the troubles in the world can be put down to money—or the lack of it."
[122]
