shallow stairs leading downwards. On each

step a phrase was written. The first one

ran:

"/ meant well. ..."

The second:

"Wipe the slate clean and start afresh...."

The third:

"7 can give it up any time I like...."

"The good intentions that pave the way

to Hell," Hercule Poirot murmured appreciatively.

"C'est bien imagine, ca /"

427

He descended the stairs. At the foot

was a tank of water with scarlet lilies.

Spanning it was a bridge shaped like a

boat. Poirot crossed by it.

On his left in a kind of marble grotto

sat the largest and ugliest and blackest

dog Poirot had ever seen! It sat up very

straight and gaunt and immovable. It was

perhaps, he thought, (and hoped!) not real. But at that moment the dog turned its ferocious and ugly head and from the

depths of its black body a low, rumbling

growl was emitted. It was a terrifying

sound.

And then Poirot noticed a decorative

basket of small round dog biscuits. They

were labelled, "A sop for Cerberus /"

It was on them that the dog's eyes were

fixed. Once again the low, rumbling growl

was heard. Hastily Poirot picked up a biscuit

and tossed it towards the great hound.

A cavernous red mouth yawned, then

came a snap as the powerful jaws closed

again. Cerberus had accepted his sop!

Poirot moved on through an open doorway.

The room was not a big one. It was

dotted with little tables, a space of dancing

floor in the middle. It was lighted with

428

small red lamps, there were frescoes on the

walls, and at the far end was a vast grill at

which officiated chefs dressed as devils

with tails and horns.

All this Poirot took in before, with all the

impulsiveness of her Russian nature,

Countess Vera Rossakoff, resplendent in

scarlet evening dress, bore down upon him

with outstretched hands.

"Ah, you have come! My dear—my

very dear friend! what a joy to see you

again! After such years — so many — how

many ?— No, we will not say how many!

To me it seems but as yesterday. You have

not changed—not in the least have you

changed!"

"Nor you, chore arnica Poirot exclaimed,

bowing over her hand.

Nevertheless he was fully conscious now

that twenty years is twenty years. Countess

Rossakoff might not uncharitably have

been described as a ruin. But she was at

least a spectacular ruin. The exuberance,

the full-blooded enjoyment of life was still

there, and she knew, none better, how to

flatter a man.

She drew Poirot with her to a table at

which two other people were sitting.

429

myw "My friend, my celebrated friend, M.

Hercule Poirot,33 she announced. "He

who is the terror of evildoers! I was once

afraid of him myself, but now I lead a life

of the extreme, the most virtuous dullness.

Is it not so ?33

The tall thin elderly man to whom she

spoke said, "Never say dull. Countess."