“Start looking,” hissed Ellery viciously; at least it sounded vicious to his ears, but Laurel only looked overjoyed and began to turn pages like mad.
“Easy, easy,” he cried. “You may skip it.”
“I’ll find your old hound.” Pages flew like locust petals in a May wind.
“Here he is―”
“Ah.”
Ellery took the book.
The illustration showed a small, almost dumpy, dog with short legs, pendulous ears, and a wiry upcurving tail. The coat was smooth. Hindlegs and forequarters were an off-white, as was the muzzle; the little dog had a black saddle and black ears with secondary pigmentation of yellowish brown extending into his tail.
The caption under the illustration said: Beagle.
“Beagle.” Ellery glared. “Beagle... Of course. Of course. No other possibility. None whatever. If I’d had the brain of a wood louse... Beagle, Laurel, beagle!” And he swept her off her feet and planted five kisses on the top of her wet head. Then he tossed her on her unmade bed and before her horrified eyes went into a fast tap ― an accomplishment which was one of his most sacred secrets, unknown even to his father. And Ellery chanted, “ Merci my pretty one, my she-detective. You have follow ze clue of ze ar-sen-ique, of ze little frog, of ze wallette, of ze everysing but ze sing you know all ze time ― zat is to say, ze beagle. Oh, ze beagle!” And he changed to a soft-shoe.
“But what’s the breed of dog got to do with anything, Ellery?” moaned Laurel. “The only connection I can see with the word ‘beagle’ is its slang meaning. Isn’t a ‘beagle’ a detective?”