"He is not at Liverpool," said Poirot shortly.
"In fact," I remarked, "no one knows where he is."
"Excepting Hercule Poirot, eh?" said Raymond.
Poirot replied seriously to the other's banter.
"Me, I know everything. Remember that."
Geoffrey Raymond lifted his eyebrows.
"Everything?” He whistled. “Whew! that's a tall order.'
"Do you mean to say you can really guess where Ralph Paton is hiding?" I asked incredulously.
"You call it guessing. I call it knowing, my friend."
"In Cranchester?" I hazarded.
"No," replied Poirot gravely, "not in Cranchester."
He said no more, but at a gesture from him the assembled party took their seats. As they did so, the door opened once more and two other people came in and sat down near the door. They were Parker and the housekeeper.
"The number is complete," said Poirot. "Every one is here."
There was a ring of satisfaction in his tone. And with the sound of it I saw a ripple of something like uneasiness pass over all those faces grouped at the other end of the room. There was a suggestion in all this as of a trap—a trap that had closed.
Poirot read from a list in an important manner.
"Mrs. Ackroyd, Miss Flora Ackroyd, Major Blunt, Mr. Geoffrey Raymond, Mrs. Ralph Paton, John Parker, Elizabeth Russell."
He laid the paper down on the table.
[276]
