“Nothing,” said the secretary; “it seems perfectly hopeless.”
The Great Detective, now recovered from his excitement, smiled faintly.
“It means simply this, my dear fellow. The Prince of Wurttemberg is a dog, a prize Dachshund. The Countess of Dashleigh bred him, and he is worth some £25,000 in addition to the prize of £10,000 offered at the Paris dog show. Can you wonder that—”
At that moment the Great Detective was interrupted by the scream of a woman.
“Great Heaven!”
The Countess of Dashleigh dashed into the room.
Her face was wild.
Her tiara was in disorder.
Her pearls were dripping all over the place.
She wrung her hands and moaned.