to the ground. Devoted to dogs and excellent

at reading aloud. Tactful, too, never

28

contradicted an invalid. What's happened

to her ? Not in distress of any kind, I hope.

I gave her a reference about a year ago to

some woman --name began with H --s9

Poirot explained hastily that Miss Camaby

was still in her post. There had been, he said, a little trouble over a lost dog.

"Amy Camaby is devoted to dogs. My

aunt had a Pekinese. She left it to Miss

Carnaby when she died and Miss Camaby

was devoted to it. I believe she was quite

heartbroken when it died. Oh yes, she's a

good soul. Not, of course, precisely intellectual."

Hercule Poirot agreed that Miss Camaby

could not, perhaps be described as intellectual.

His next proceeding was to discover the

Park Keeper to whom Miss Camaby had

spoken on the fateful afternoon. This he

did without much difficulty. The man

remembered the incident in question.

"Middle-aged lady, rather stout --in a

regular state she was --lost her Pekinese

dog. I knew her well by sight --brings the

dog along most afternoons. I saw her come

in with it. She was in a rare taking when she

lost it. Came running to me to know if I'd

29

seen any one with a Pekinese dog! Well, I

ask you! I can tell you, the Gardens is full

of dogs --every kind --terriers, Pekes, German sausage-dogs --even them Borzois

--all kinds we have. Not likely as Pd

notice one Peke more than another."

Hercule Poirot nodded his head thoughtfully.

He went to 38 Bloomsbury Road Square.

Nos. 383 39 and 40 were incorporated

together as the Balaclava Private Hotel.

Poirot walked up the steps and pushed

open the door. He was greeted inside by

gloom and a smell of cooking cabbage with

a reminiscence of breakfast kippers. On his

left was a mahogany table with a sad-looking

chrysanthemum plant on it. Above the

table was a big baize-covered rack into

which letters were stuck. Poirot stared at

the board thoughtfully for some minutes.

He pushed open a door on his right. It led

into a kind of lounge with small tables and

some so-called easy-chairs covered with a

depressing pattern of cretonne. Three old

ladies and one fierce-looking old gentleman

raised their heads and gazed at the intruder

with deadly venom. Hercule Poirot blushed

and withdrew.

30

He walked farther along the passage and

came to a staircase. On his right a passage

branched at right angles to what was evidently

the dining-room.

A little way along this passage was a door

marked "office".

On this Poirot tapped. Receiving no

response, he opened the door and looked

in. There was a large desk in the room

covered with papers but there was no one

to be seen. He withdrew, closing the door

again. He penetrated to the dining-room.

A sad-looking girl in a dirty apron was

shuffling about with a basket of knives and