"You are interested in him, I believe."

"Interested!" said the Countess. "I should rather say so. Why,
I bred him!"

"You which?" gasped the Great Detective, his usually impassive
features suffused with a carmine blush.

"I bred him," said the Countess, "and I've got 10,000 pounds
upon his chances, so no wonder I want him back in Paris. Only
listen," she said, "if they've got hold of the Prince and cut
his tail or spoiled the markings of his stomach it would be far
better to have him quietly put out of the way here."

The Great Detective reeled and leaned up against the side of the
room. So! The cold-blooded admission of the beautiful woman for
the moment took away his breath! Herself the mother of the young
Bourbon, misallied with one of the greatest families of Europe,
staking her fortune on a Royalist plot, and yet with so instinctive
a knowledge of European politics as to know that any removal of the
hereditary birth-marks of the Prince would forfeit for him the
sympathy of the French populace.

The Countess resumed her tiara.

She left.

The secretary re-entered.