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visitor. Dogs of your own, I fancy?”
    This last was addressed to me and I stopped and patted him.
    “Nice little fellow,” I said to the woman. “Needs plucking a bit, though.”
    “Yes, sir, he's usually plucked three times a year.”
    “Is he an old dog?”
    “Oh, no, sir. Bob's not more than six. And sometimes he behaves just like a puppy. Gets hold of cook's slippers and prances about with them. And he's very gentle, though you wouldn't believe it to hear the noise he makes sometimes. The only person he goes for is the postman. Downright scared of him, the postman is.”
    Bob was now investigating the legs of Poirot's trousers. Having learned all he could, he gave vent to a prolonged sniff (“H'm, not too bad, but not really a doggy person”) and returned to me, cocking his head on one side and looking at me expectantly.
    “I don't know why dogs always go for postmen, I'm sure,” continued our guide.
    “It's a matter of reasoning,” said Poirot. “The dog, he argues from reason. He is intelligent; he makes his deductions according to his point of view. There are people who may enter a house and there are people who may not - that a dog soon learns. Eh bien, who is the person who most persistently tries to gain admission, rattling on the door twice or three times a day - and who is never by any chance admitted? The postman. Clearly, then, an undesirable guest from the point of view of the master of the house. He is always sent about his business, but he persistently returns and tries again. Then a dog's duty is clear, to aid in driving this undesirable man away, and to bite him if possible. A most reasonable proceeding.” He beamed on Bob. “And a most intelligent person, I fancy.”
    “Oh, he is, sir. He's almost human. Bob is.”
    She flung open another door.
    “The drawing-room, sir.”
    The drawing-room conjured up memories of the past. A faint fragrance of potpourri hung about it. The chintzes were worn, their pattern faded garlands of roses. On the walls were prints and water-colour drawings. There was a good deal of china - fragile shepherds and shepherdesses. There were cushions worked in cross stitch. There were faded photographs in handsome silver frames. There were many inlaid workboxes and tea caddies. Most fascinating of all to me were two exquisitely cut tissue-paper ladies under glass stands. One with a spinning-wheel, one with a cat on her knee.
    The atmosphere of a bygone day, a day of leisure, of refinement, of “ladies and gentlemen,” closed round me. This was indeed a “withdrawing-room.” Here ladies sat and did their fancy-work, and if a cigarette was ever smoked by a favoured member of the male sex, what a shaking out of curtains and general airing of the room there would be afterwards!
    My attention was drawn by Bob. He was sitting in an attitude of rapt attention close beside an elegant little table with two drawers in it.
    As he saw that I was noticing him, he gave a short, plaintive yelp, looking from me to the table.
    “What does he want?” I asked.
    Our interest in Bob was clearly pleasing to the maid who obviously was very fond of him.
    “It's his ball, sir. It was always kept in that drawer. That's why he sits there and asks.”
    Her voice changed. She addressed Bob in a high falsetto.
    “It isn't there any longer, beautiful. Bob's ball is in the kitchen. In the kitchen, Bob.”
    Bob shifted his gaze impatiently to Poirot.
    “This woman's a fool,” he seemed to be saying. “You look a brainy sort of chap. Balls are kept in certain places - this drawer is one of those places. There always has been a ball here. Therefore there should be a ball there now. That's obvious dog-logic, isn't it?”
    “It's not there now, boy,” I said. He looked at me doubtfully. Then as we went out of the room he followed slowly in an unconvinced manner.
    We were shown various cupboards, a downstairs cloakroom, and a small pantry place, “where the mistress used to do the flowers,