THE MURDER OF ROGER ACKROYD
I have always wanted to go to South America. I sighed, and then looked up to find Mr. Porrott eyeing me sympathetically. He seemed an understanding little man.
“You will go there, yes?” he asked.
I shook my head with a sigh.
“I could have gone,” I said, “a year ago. But I was foolish—and worse than foolish—greedy. I risked the substance for the shadow.”
“I comprehend,” said Mr. Porrott. “You speculated?"
I nodded mournfully, but in spite of myself I felt secretly entertained. This ridiculous little man was so portentously solemn.
“Not the Porcupine Oilfields?” he asked suddenly.
I stared.
“I thought of them, as a matter of fact, but in the end I plumped for a gold mine in Western Australia.”
My neighbor was regarding me with a strange expression which I could not fathom.
“It is Fate,” he said at last.
“What is Fate?” I asked irritably.
“That I should live next to a man who seriously considers Porcupine Oilfields, and also West Australian Gold Mines. Tell me, have you also a penchant for auburn hair?”
I stared at him open-mouthed, and he burst out laughing.
“No, no, it is not the insanity that I suffer from. Make your mind easy. It was a foolish question that I put to you there, for, see you, my friend of whom I spoke was
[22]
