Apologia

           Fivea.m.Iamverytired–butIhavefinishedmytask.Myarmachesfromwriting.

           Astrangeendtomymanuscript.ImeantittobepublishedsomedayasthehistoryofoneofPoirot’sfailures!

           Odd,howthingspanout.

           AllalongI’vehadapremonitionofdisaster,fromthemomentIsawRalphPatonandMrs.Ferrarswiththeirheadstogether.Ithoughtthenthatshewasconfidinginhim,asithappenedIwasquitewrongthere,buttheideapersistedevenafterIwentintothestudywithAckroydthatnight,untilhetoldmethetruth.

           PooroldAckroyd.I’malwaysgladthatIgavehimachance.Iurgedhimtoreadthatletterbeforeitwastoolate.

           Orletmebehonest–didn’tIsubconsciouslyrealizethatwithapig-headedchaplikehim,itwasmybestchanceofgettinghimnottoreadit?Hisnervousnessthatnightwasinterestingpsychologically.Heknewdangerwascloseathand.Andyetheneversuspectedme.

           Thedaggerwasanafterthought.I’dbroughtupaveryhandylittleweaponofmyown,butwhenIsawthedaggerlyinginthesilvertable,itoccurredtomeatoncehowmuchbetteritwouldbetouseaweaponthatcouldn’tbetracedtome.

           IsupposeImusthavemeanttomurderhimallalong.AssoonasIheardofMrs.Ferrars’sdeath,Ifeltconvincedthatshewouldhavetoldhimeverythingbeforeshedied.