“How do you know?” he said.
The Great Detective smiled his inscrutable smile.
“Yes,” said the Prime Minister. “I will use no concealment. I am interested, deeply interested. Find the Prince of Wurttemberg, get him safe back to Paris and I will add £500 to the reward already offered. But listen,” he said impressively as he left the room, “see to it that no attempt is made to alter the marking of the prince, or to clip his tail.”
So! To clip the Prince’s tail! The brain of the Great Detective reeled. So! a gang of miscreants had conspired to—but no! the thing was not possible.
There was another rap at the door.
A second visitor was seen. He wormed his way in, lying almost prone upon his stomach, and wriggling across the floor. He was enveloped in a long purple cloak. He stood up and peeped over the top of it.
Great Heaven!
It was the Archbishop of Canterbury!
“Your Grace!” exclaimed the detective in amazement—“pray do not stand, I beg you. Sit down, lie down, anything rather than stand.”
The Archbishop took off his mitre and laid it wearily on the whisker-stand.