The Archbishop regained his mitre, uncrossed himself, wrapped his
cloak about him, and crawled stealthily out on his hands and knees,
purring like a cat.

The face of the Great Detective showed the most profound sympathy.
It ran up and down in furrows. "So," he muttered, "the sister of
the Archbishop, the Countess of Dashleigh!" Accustomed as he was to
the life of the aristocracy, even the Great Detective felt that
there was here intrigue of more than customary complexity.

There was a loud rapping at the door.

There entered the Countess of Dashleigh. She was all in furs.

She was the most beautiful woman in England. She strode imperiously
into the room. She seized a chair imperiously and seated herself on
it, imperial side up.

She took off her tiara of diamonds and put it on the tiara-holder
beside her and uncoiled her boa of pearls and put it on the
pearl-stand.

"You have come," said the Great Detective, "about the Prince of
Wurttemberg."

"Wretched little pup!" said the Countess of Dashleigh in disgust.

So! A further complication! Far from being in love with the
Prince, the Countess denounced the young Bourbon as a pup!