THE MURDER OF ROGER ACKROYD
faint, and went into the bar for a glass of brandy, and so were able to see if both the barmaids were on duty?”
“It wasn’t a barmaid,” said Caroline unhesitatingly. “In fact, I’'m almost sure that it was Flora Ackroyd, only———"
“Only it doesn’t seem to make sense,” I agreed.
“But if it wasn’t Flora, who could it have been?”
Rapidly my sister ran over a list of maidens living in the neighborhood, with profuse reasons for and against.
When she paused for breath, I murmured something about a patient, and slipped out.
I proposed to make my way to the Three Boars. It seemed likely that Ralph Paton would have returned there by now.
I knew Ralph very well—better, perhaps, than any one else in King’s Abbot, for I had known his mother before him, and therefore I understood much in him that puzzled others. He was, to a certain extent, the victim of heredity. He had not inherited his mother’s fatal propensity for drink, but nevertheless he had in him a strain of weakness. As my new friend of this morning had declared, he was extraordinarily handsome. Just on six feet, perfectly proportioned, with the easy grace of an athlete, he was dark, like his mother, with a handsome, sunburnt face always ready to break into a smile. Ralph Paton was of those born to charm easily and without effort. He was self-indulgent and extravagant, with no veneration for anything on earth, but he was lovable nevertheless, and his friends were all devoted to him.
Could I do anything with the boy? I thought I could.
[28]
