“Those,” said the secretary, “are the very conditions of the mystery.”

“Good,” said the Great Detective, “now wrap yourself in this disguise, put on these brown whiskers and tell me what it is.”

The secretary wrapped himself in a blue domino with lace insertions, then, bending over, he whispered in the ear of the Great Detective: 

“The Prince of Wurttemberg has been kidnapped.”

The Great Detective bounded from his chair as if he had been kicked from below.

A prince stolen!  Evidently a Bourbon!  The scion of one of the oldest families in Europe kidnapped.  Here was a mystery indeed worthy of his analytical brain.

His mind began to move like lightning.

“Stop!” he said, “how do you know this?”

The secretary handed him a telegram.  It was from the Prefect of Police of Paris.  It read:  “The Prince of Wurttemberg stolen.  Probably forwarded to London.  Must have him here for the opening day of Exhibition. 1,000 pounds reward.”

So!  The Prince had been kidnapped out of Paris at the very time when his appearance at the International Exposition would have been a political event of the first magnitude.

With the Great Detective to think was to act, and to act was to think.  Frequently he could do both together.

“Wire to Paris for a description of the Prince.”

The secretary bowed and left.

At the same moment there was slight scratching at the door.

A visitor entered.  He crawled stealthily on his hands and knees.  A hearthrug thrown over his head and shoulders disguised his identity.

He crawled to the middle of the room.

Then he rose.

Great Heaven!

It was the Prime Minister of England.

“You!” said the detective.

“Me,” said the Prime Minister.

“You have come in regard the kidnapping of the Prince of Wurttemberg?”

The Prime Minister started.

“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 pounds 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!