THE MURDER OF ROGER ACKROYD
get at, M. Poirot, I mean. There's something fishy about that woman, and he knows it."
"Precisely the remark Mrs. Ackroyd made to me yesterday," I said. "That there was something fishy about Miss Russell."
"Ah!" said Caroline darkly, "Mrs. Ackroyd! There's another!"
"Another what?"
Caroline refused to explain her remarks. She merely nodded her head several times, rolled up her knitting, and went upstairs to don the high mauve silk blouse and the gold locket which she calls dressing for dinner.
I stayed there staring into the fire and thinking over Caroline's words. Had Poirot really come to gain information about Miss Russell, or was it only Caroline's tortuous mind that interpreted everything according to her own ideas?
There had certainly been nothing in Miss Russell's manner that morning to arouse suspicion. At least———
I remembered her persistent conversation on the subject of drug-taking and from that she had led the conversation to poisons and poisoning. But there was nothing in that. Ackroyd had not been poisoned. Still, it was odd. . . .
I heard Caroline's voice, rather acid in note, calling from the top of the stairs.
"James, you will be late for dinner."
I put some coal on the fire and went upstairs obediently.
It is well at any price to have peace in the home.
[144]
