THE MURDER OF ROGER ACKROYD
"Just so," said the inspector.
"Won't you tell me what it is that has been stolen?"
"We're not quite—certain," said the inspector hesitatingly.
A wide look of alarm came into the girl's eyes. She started up.
"What is it? You're hiding something from me?"
Moving in his usual unobtrusive manner, Hector Blunt came between her and the inspector. She half stretched out her hand, and he took it in both of his, patting it as though she were a very small child, and she turned to him as though something in his stolid, rocklike demeanor promised comfort and safety.
"It's bad news, Flora," he said quietly. "Bad news for all of us. Your Uncle Roger———"
"Yes?"
"It will be a shock to you. Bound to be. Poor Roger's dead."
Flora drew away from him, her eyes dilating with horror.
"When?" she whispered. "When?"
"Very soon after you left him, I'm afraid," said Blunt gravely.
Flora raised her hand to her throat, gave a little cry, and I hurried to catch her as she fell. She had fainted, and Blunt and I carried her upstairs and laid her on her bed. Then I got him to wake Mrs. Ackroyd and tell her the news. Flora soon revived, and I brought her mother to her, telling her what to do for the girl. Then I hurried downstairs again.
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