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 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.
“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.
He barked at the waves exultingly and licked the secretary’s hand.
“What a beautiful dog,” said the passengers.
The disguise was absolutely complete.
The Great Detective had been coated over with mucilage to which dog
hairs had been applied. The markings on his back were perfect. His
tail, adjusted with an automatic coupler, moved up and down responsive
to every thought. His deep eyes were full of intelligence.
Next day he was exhibited in the Dachshund class at the International
show.
He won all hearts.
_“Quel beau chien!”_ cried the French people.
_“Ach! was ein Dog!”_ cried the Spanish.
The Great Detective took the first prize!
The fortune of the Countess was saved.
Unfortunately as the Great Detective had neglected to pay the dog tax,
he was caught and destroyed by the dog-catchers. But that is, of
course, quite outside of the present narrative, and is only mentioned
as an odd fact in conclusion.
II.
“Q.” A Psychic Pstory of the Psupernatural
I cannot expect that any of my readers will believe the story which I
am about to narrate. Looking back upon it, I scarcely believe it
myself. Yet my narrative is so extraordinary and throws such light upon
the nature of our communications with beings of another world, that I
feel I am not entitled to withhold it from the public.
I had gone over to visit Annerly at his rooms. It was Saturday, October
31. I remember the date so precisely because it was my pay day, and I
had received six sovereigns and ten shillings. I remembered the sum so
exactly because I had put the money into my pocket, and I remember into
which pocket I had put it because I had no money in any other pocket.
My mind is perfectly clear on all these points.
Annerly and I sat smoking for some time.