The Inspector, who, less tactfully handled, might have repented of his confidences on learning the newcomer’s identity, at once saw very clearly that he need do nothing of the sort. More, he was able to congratulate himself on his far-sightedness in making them. He was quite well aware that important London newspapers can do a very great deal for an able but unknown country policeman; quite well aware. He accepted the offer, with dignified — careful nonchalance. Guy interposed with interesting questions connected with the decanter and siphon in his hands, and all was joy and loving-kindness. “Extraordinary! Almost incredible!” remarked Mr. Foster, immediately the conversation presented him with an opening for the insertion of his own voice. “This affair is going to make the name of Duffley ring throughout the length and breadth of the land, gentlemen.” Mr. Foster was not unpleasantly aware that it would also make the name of Mr. Reginald Foster reverberate in a similar manner. A happy old age for Mr. Foster was assured, after a still more happy middle-age. He saw himself for weeks on end surrounded by eager reporters, their note-books at the ready; he saw his name familiar in men’s mouths as a household word; he saw himself pointed out in the street for years to come as “Oh, look, dear—there’s Reginald Foster! You remember—the man who showed up so awfully well in that extraordinary business about the murder of the Crown Prince of X at Duffley, years ago. They say he goes to stay at the Palace every year on the anniversary. They say he calls all the Royal Family by their Christian names. Of course he’s a wonderful man, though. It was really he who got the murderers brought to justice, you know. Yes, I believe there was a Police Inspector in it, too, but, of course, it was Reginald Foster——” Mr. Foster’s imagination ran blithely on, chased by its breathless owner. “Indeed it is,” replied Doyle heartily. “I’ll see to that.” And he looked at the Inspector as if to add that he would see that that gentleman’s name rang in harmony with it. The Inspector wondered harder than ever how to begin the enlightening process. “But who _is_ the Crown Prince?” demanded Mr. Foster earnestly. “That’s what I want to know. _What_ Crown Prince? Now, it seems to me, Inspector, that what you ought to do is to get on the telephone at once to the Home Secretary, tell him what’s happened (I’ll corroborate your story, of course), and ask him what Crown Princes are known to be absent from their countries at the moment. Or perhaps the Foreign Office would be better.