THE MURDER OF ROGER ACKROYD
"You realize what you're doing, I hope," I jerked out. "You're putting a halter round Ralph Paton's neck as surely as you're sitting in that chair."
"Not at all," said Caroline, quite unruffled. "I was surprised you hadn't told him."
"I took very good care not to," I said. "I'm fond of that boy."
"So am I. That's why I say you're talking nonsense. I don't believe Ralph did it, and so the truth can't hurt him, and we ought to give M. Poirot all the help we can. Why, think, very likely Ralph was out with that identical girl on the night of the murder, and if so, he's got a perfect alibi."
"If he's got a perfect alibi," I retorted, "why doesn't he come forward and say so?"
"Might get the girl into trouble," said Caroline sapiently. "But if M. Poirot gets hold of her, and puts it to her as her duty, she'll come forward of her own accord and clear Ralph."
"You seem to have invented a romantic fairy story of your own," I said. "You read too many trashy novels, Caroline. I've always told you so."
I dropped into my chair again.
"Did Poirot ask you any more questions?" I inquired.
"Only about the patients you had that morning."
"The patients?" I demanded, unbelievingly.
"Yes, your surgery patients. How many and who they were?"
"Do you mean to say you were able to tell him that?" I demanded.
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