She opened the morning-room door, and Bob shot through like a suddenly projected cannon-ball.
‘Who is it? Where are they? Oh, there you are. Dear me, don’t I seem to remember—’ sniff—sniff—sniff—prolonged snort. ‘Of course! We have met!’
‘Hullo, old man,’ I said. ‘How goes it?’
Bob wagged his tail perfunctorily. ‘Nicely, thank you. Let me just see—’ he resumed his researches. ‘Been talking to a spaniel lately, I smell. Foolish dogs, I think. What’s this? A cat? That is interesting. Wish we had her here. We’d have rare sport. H’m—not a bad bull-terrier.’
Having correctly diagnosed a visit I had lately paid to some doggy friends, he transferred his attention to Poirot, inhaled a noseful of benzine and walked away reproachfully.
Aaaaah, gotta love Bob.