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old-fashioned type of servant seldom seen nowadays.
    Poirot presented his credentials.
    â€œYes, sir, the house agent telephoned. Will you step this way, sir?”
    The shutters which I had noticed were closed on our first visit to spy out the land, were now all thrown open in preparation forour visit. Everything, I observed, was spotlessly clean and well kept. Clearly our guide was a thoroughly conscientious woman.
    â€œThis is the morning room, sir.”
    I glanced round approvingly. A pleasant room with its long windows giving on the street. It was furnished with good, solid, old-fashioned furniture, mostly Victorian, but there was a Chippendale bookcase and a set of attractive Hepplewhite chairs.
    Poirot and I behaved in the customary fashion of people being shown over houses. We stood stock-still, looking a little ill at ease, murmuring remarks such as “very nice.” “A very pleasant room.” “The morning room, you say?”
    The maid conducted us across the hall and into the corresponding room on the other side. This was much larger.
    â€œThe dining room, sir.”
    This room was definitely Victorian. A heavy mahogany dining table, a massive sideboard of almost purplish mahogany with great clusters of carved fruit, solid leather-covered dining room chairs. On the wall hung what were obviously family portraits.
    The terrier had continued to bark in some sequestered spot. Now the sound suddenly increased in volume. With a crescendo of barking he could be heard galloping across the hall.
    â€œ Who’s come into the house? I’ll tear him limb from limb,” was clearly the “burden of his song.”
    He arrived in the doorway, sniffing violently.
    â€œOh, Bob, you naughty dog,” exclaimed our conductress. “Don’t mind him, sir. He won’t do you no harm.”
    Bob, indeed, having discovered the intruders, completely changed his manner. He fussed in and introduced himself to us in an agreeable manner.
    â€œPleased to meet you, I’m sure,” he observed as he sniffed round our ankles. “Excuse the noise, won’t you, but I have my job to do. Got to be careful who we let in, you know. But it’s a dull life and I’m really quite pleased to see a visitor. Dogs of your own, I fancy?”
    This last was addressed to me as I stooped and patted him.
    â€œNice little fellow,” I said to the woman. “Needs plucking a bit, though.”
    â€œYes, sir, he’s usually plucked three times a year.”
    â€œIs he an old dog?”
    â€œOh, 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.
    â€œI don’t know why dogs always go for postmen, I’m sure,” continued our guide.
    â€œIt’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. Thena dog’s duty is clear, to aid in driving this undesirable man away, and to bite