On the wall of the Countess’s boudoir was a large framed engraving.

It was a portrait.

Under it was a printed legend: 

The prince of Wurttemberg

The portrait was that of a Dachshund.

The long body, the broad ears, the unclipped tail, the short hind legs—­all was there.

In a fraction of a second the lightning mind of the Great Detective had penetrated the whole mystery.

The prince was A dog!!!!

Hastily throwing a domino over his housemaid’s dress, he rushed to the street.  He summoned a passing hansom, and in a few moments was at his house.

“I have it,” he gasped to his secretary.  “The mystery is solved.  I have pieced it together.  By sheer analysis I have reasoned it out.  Listen—­hind legs, hair on back, wet snout, pup—­eh, what? does that suggest nothing to you?”

“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 pounds in addition to the prize of 10,000 pounds 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.

“They have cut his tail,” she gasped, “and taken all the hair off his back.  What can I do?  I am undone!!”

“Madame,” said the Great Detective, calm as bronze, “do yourself up.  I can save you yet.”

“You!”

“Me!”

“How?”

“Listen.  This is how.  The Prince was to have been shown at Paris.”

The Countess nodded.

“Your fortune was staked on him?”

The Countess nodded again.

“The dog was stolen, carried to London, his tail cut and his marks disfigured.”

Amazed at the quiet penetration of the Great Detective, the Countess kept on nodding and nodding.

“And you are ruined?”

“I am,” she gasped, and sank to the floor in a heap of pearls.

“Madame,” said the Great Detective, “all is not lost.”

He straightened himself up to his full height.  A look of inflinchable unflexibility flickered over his features.

The honour of England, the fortune of the most beautiful woman in England was at stake.

“I will do it,” he murmured.

“Rise dear lady,” he continued.  “Fear nothing.  I will impersonate the dog!!!”

That night the Great Detective might have been seen on the deck of the Calais packet boat with his secretary.  He was on his hands and knees in a long black cloak, and his secretary had him on a short chain.