The Murder of Roger Ackroyd / Убийство Роджера Экройда

The bell was answered, and Ralph ordered the drinks. When the man had gone again, he sat hunched in the armchair, frowning to himself.

‘Is it really – serious?’ I asked.

He nodded.

‘I’m fairly up against it this time,’ he said soberly.

The unusual ring of gravity in his voice told me that he spoke the truth. It took a good deal to make Ralph grave.

‘In fact,’ he continued, ‘I can’t see my way ahead… I’m damned if I can.’

‘If I could help – ’ I suggested diffidently.

But he shook his head very decidedly.

‘Good of you, doctor. But I can’t let you in on this. I’ve got to play a lone hand.’ he was silent a minute and then repeated in a slightly different tone of voice: ‘Yes – I’ve got to play a lone hand…’

It was just a few minutes before half-past seven when I rang the front-door bell of fernly Park. The door was opened with admirable promptitude by Parker, the butler.

The night was such a fine one that I had preferred to come on foot. I stepped into the big square hall and Parker relieved me of my overcoat. Just then Ackroyd’s secretary, a pleasant young fellow by the name of Raymond, passed through the hall on his way to Ackroyd’s study, his hands full of papers.