When Ashe, returning from his interview with Mr. Peters, was
intercepted by a respectful small boy and conducted to the
housekeeper's room, he was conscious of a sensation of shrinking
inferiority akin to his emotions on his first day at school. The
room was full and apparently on very cordial terms with itself.
Everybody seemed to know everybody and conversation was
proceeding in a manner reminiscent of an Old Home Week.
As a matter of fact, the house party at Blandings being in the
main a gathering together of the Emsworth clan by way of honor
and as a means of introduction to Mr. Peters and his daughter,
the bride-of-the-house-to-be, most of the occupants of the
housekeeper's room were old acquaintances and were renewing
interrupted friendships at the top of their voices.
A lull followed Ashe's arrival and all eyes, to his great
discomfort, were turned in his direction. His embarrassment was
relieved by Mrs. Twemlow, who advanced to do the honors. Of Mrs.
Twemlow little need be attempted in the way of pen portraiture
beyond the statement that she went as harmoniously with Mr.
Beach as one of a pair of vases or one of a brace of pheasants
goes with its fellow. She had the same appearance of imminent
apoplexy, the same air of belonging to some dignified and haughty
branch of the vegetable kingdom.
"Mr. Marson, welcome to Blandings Castle!"
Ashe had been waiting for somebody to say this, and had been a
little surprised that Mr. Beach had not done so. He was also
surprised at the housekeeper's ready recognition of his identity,
until he saw Joan in the throng and deduced that she must have
been the source of information.
He envied Joan. In some amazing way she contrived to look not out
of place in this gathering. He himself, he felt, had impostor
stamped in large characters all over him.
Mrs. Twemlow began to make the introductions - a long and tedious
process, which she performed relentlessly, without haste and
without scamping her work. With each member of the aristocracy of
his new profession Ashe shook hands, and on each member he
smiled, until his facial and dorsal muscles were like to crack
under the strain. It was amazing that so many high-class
domestics could be collected into one moderate-sized room.
"Miss Simpson you know," said Mrs. Twemlow, and Ashe was about to
deny the charge when he perceived that Joan was the individual
referred to. "Mr. Judson, Mr. Marson. Mr. Judson is the Honorable
Frederick's gentleman."
"You have not the pleasure of our Freddie's acquaintance as yet,
I take it, Mr. Marson?" observed Mr. Judson genially, a
smooth-faced, lazy-looking young man. "Freddie repays
inspection."
"Mr. Marson, permit me to introduce you to Mr. Ferris, Lord
Stockheath's gentleman."
Mr. Ferris, a dark, cynical man, with a high forehead, shook Ashe
by the hand.
"Happy to meet you, Mr. Marson."
"Miss Willoughby, this is Mr. Marson, who will take you in to
dinner. Miss Willoughby is Lady Mildred Mant's lady. As of course
you are aware, Lady Mildred, our eldest daughter, married Colonel
Horace Mant, of the Scots Guards."
Ashe was not aware, and he was rather surprised that Mrs. Twemlow
should have a daughter whose name was Lady Mildred; but reason,
coming to his rescue, suggested that by our she meant the
offspring of the Earl of Emsworth and his late countess. Miss
Willoughby was a light-hearted damsel, with a smiling face and
chestnut hair, done low over her forehead.
Since etiquette forbade that he should take Joan in to dinner,
Ashe was glad that at least an apparently pleasant substitute had
been provided. He had just been introduced to an appallingly
statuesque lady of the name of Chester, Lady Ann Warblington's
own maid, and his somewhat hazy recollections of Joan's lecture
on below-stairs precedence had left him with the impression that
this was his destined partner. He had frankly quailed at the
prospect of being linked to so much aristocratic hauteur.
When the final introduction had been made conversation broke out
again. It dealt almost exclusively, so far as Ashe could follow
it, with the idiosyncrasies of the employers of those present. He
took it that this happened down the entire social scale below
stairs. Probably the lower servants in the servants' hall
discussed the upper servants in the room, and the still lower
servants in the housemaids' sitting-room discussed their
superiors of the servants' hall, and the stillroom gossiped about
the housemaids' sitting-room.
He wondered which was the bottom circle of all, and came to the
conclusion that it was probably represented by the small
respectful boy who had acted as his guide a short while before.
This boy, having nobody to discuss anybody with, presumably sat
in solitary meditation, brooding on the odd-job man.
He thought of mentioning this theory to Miss Willoughby, but
decided that it was too abstruse for her, and contented himself
with speaking of some of the plays he had seen before leaving
London. Miss Willoughby was an enthusiast on the drama; and,
Colonel Mant's military duties keeping him much in town, she had
had wide opportunities of indulging her tastes. Miss Willoughby
did not like the country. She thought it dull.
"Don't you think the country dull, Mr. Marson?"
"I shan't find it dull here," said Ashe; and he was surprised to
discover, through the medium of a pleased giggle, that he was
considered to have perpetrated a compliment.
Mr. Beach appeared in due season, a little distrait, as becomes a
man who has just been engaged on important and responsible
duties.
"Alfred spilled the hock!" Ashe heard him announce to Mrs.
Twemlow in a bitter undertone. "Within half an inch of his
lordship's arm he spilled it."
Mrs. Twemlow murmured condolences. Mr. Beach's set expression was
of one who is wondering how long the strain of existence can be
supported.
"Mr. Beach, if you please, dinner is served."
The butler crushed down sad thoughts and crooked his elbow.
"Mrs. Twemlow!"
Ashe, miscalculating degrees of rank in spite of all his caution,
was within a step of leaving the room out of his proper turn; but
the startled pressure of Miss Willoughby's hand on his arm warned
him in time. He stopped, to allow the statuesque Miss Chester to
sail out under escort of a wizened little man with a horseshoe
pin in his tie, whose name, in company with nearly all the others
that had been spoken to him since he came into the room, had
escaped Ashe's memory.
"You were nearly making a bloomer!" said Miss Willoughby
brightly. "You must be absent-minded, Mr. Marson - like his
lordship."
"Is Lord Emsworth absent-minded?"
Miss Willoughby laughed.
"Why, he forgets his own name sometimes! If it wasn't for Mr.
Baxter, goodness knows what would happen to him."
"I don't think I know Mr. Baxter."
"You will if you stay here long. You can't get away from him if
you're in the same house. Don't tell anyone I said so; but he's
the real master here. His lordship's secretary he calls himself;
but he's really everything rolled into one - like the man in the
play."
Ashe, searching in his dramatic memories for such a person in a
play, inquired whether Miss Willoughby meant Pooh-Bah, in "The
Mikado," of which there had been a revival in London recently.
Miss Willoughby did mean Pooh-Bah.
"But Nosy Parker is what I call him," she said. "He minds
everybody's business as well as his own."
The last of the procession trickled into the steward's room.
Mr. Beach said grace somewhat patronizingly. The meal began.
"You've seen Miss Peters, of course, Mr. Marson?" said Miss
Willoughby, resuming conversation with the soup.
"Just for a few minutes at Paddington."
"Oh! You haven't been with Mr. Peters long, then?"
Ashe began to wonder whether everybody he met was going to ask
him this dangerous question.
"Only a day or so."
"Where were you before that?"
Ashe was conscious of a prickly sensation. A little more of this
and he might as well reveal his true mission at the castle and
have done with it.
"Oh, I was - that is to say - - "
"How are you feeling after the journey, Mr. Marson?" said a voice
from the other side of the table; and Ashe, looking up
gratefully, found Joan's eyes looking into his with a curiously
amused expression.
He was too grateful for the interruption to try to account for
this. He replied that he was feeling very well, which was not the
case. Miss Willoughby's interest was diverted to a discussion of
the defects of the various railroad systems of Great Britain.
At the head of the table Mr. Beach had started an intimate
conversation with Mr. Ferris, the valet of Lord Stockheath, the
Honorable Freddie's "poor old Percy" - a cousin, Ashe had
gathered, of Aline Peters' husband-to-be. The butler spoke in
more measured tones even than usual, for he was speaking of
tragedy.
"We were all extremely sorry, Mr. Ferris, to read of your
misfortune."
Ashe wondered what had been happening to Mr. Ferris.
"Yes, Mr. Beach," replied the valet, "it's a fact we made a
pretty poor show." He took a sip from his glass. "There is no
concealing the fact - I have never tried to conceal it - that poor
Percy is not bright."
Miss Chester entered the conversation.
"I couldn't see where the girl - what's her name? was so very
pretty. All the papers had pieces where it said she was
attractive, and what not; but she didn't look anything special to
me from her photograph in the Mirror. What his lordship could see
in her I can't understand."
"The photo didn't quite do her justice, Miss Chester. I was
present in court, and I must admit she was svelte - decidedly
svelte. And you must recollect that Percy, from childhood up, has
always been a highly susceptible young nut. I speak as one who
knows him."
Mr. Beach turned to Joan.
"We are speaking of the Stockheath breach-of-promise case, Miss
Simpson, of which you doubtless read in the newspapers. Lord
Stockheath is a nephew of ours. I fancy his lordship was greatly
shocked at the occurrence."
"He was," chimed in Mr. Judson from down the table. "I happened
to overhear him speaking of it to young Freddie. It was in the
library on the morning when the judge made his final summing up
and slipped it into Lord Stockheath so proper. 'If ever anything
of this sort happens to you, you young scalawag,' he says to
Freddie - "
Mr. Beach coughed. "Mr. Judson!"
"Oh, it's all right, Mr. Beach; we're all in the family here, in
a manner of speaking. It wasn't as though I was telling it to a
lot of outsiders. I'm sure none of these ladies or gentlemen
will let it go beyond this room?"
The company murmured virtuous acquiescence.
"He says to Freddie: 'You young scalawag, if ever anything of
this sort happens to you, you can pack up and go off to Canada,
for I'll have nothing more to do with you!' - or words to that
effect. And Freddie says: 'Oh, dash it all, gov'nor, you
know - what?'"
However short Mr. Judson's imitation of his master's voice may
have fallen of histrionic perfection, it pleased the company. The
room shook with mirth.
"Mr. Judson is clever, isn't he, Mr. Marson?" whispered Miss
Willoughby, gazing with adoring eyes at the speaker.
Mr. Beach thought it expedient to deflect the conversation. By
the unwritten law of the room every individual had the right to
speak as freely as he wished about his own personal employer; but
Judson, in his opinion, sometimes went a trifle too far.
"Tell me, Mr. Ferris," he said, "does his lordship seem to bear
it well?"
"Oh, Percy is bearing it well enough."
Ashe noted as a curious fact that, though the actual valet of any
person under discussion spoke of him almost affectionately by his
Christian name, the rest of the company used the greatest
ceremony and gave him his title with all respect. Lord Stockheath
was Percy to Mr. Ferris, and the Honorable Frederick Threepwood
was Freddie to Mr. Judson; but to Ferris, Mr. Judson's Freddie
was the Honorable Frederick, and to Judson Mr. Ferris' Percy was
Lord Stockheath. It was rather a pleasant form of etiquette, and
struck Ashe as somehow vaguely feudal.
"Percy," went on Mr. Ferris, "is bearing it like a little
Briton - the damages not having come out of his pocket! It's his
old father - who had to pay them - that's taking it to heart. You
might say he's doing himself proud. He says it's brought on his
gout again, and that's why he's gone to Droitwich instead of
coming here. I dare say Percy isn't sorry."
"It has been," said Mr. Beach, summing up, "a most unfortunate
occurrence. The modern tendency of the lower classes to get above
themselves is becoming more marked every day. The young female in
this case was, I understand, a barmaid. It is deplorable that our
young men should allow themselves to get into such
entanglements."
"The wonder to me," said the irrepressible Mr. Judson, "is that
more of these young chaps don't get put through it. His lordship
wasn't so wide of the mark when he spoke like that to Freddie in
the library that time. I give you my word, it's a mercy young
Freddie hasn't been up against it! When we were in London,
Freddie and I," he went on, cutting through Mr. Beach's
disapproving cough, "before what you might call the crash, when
his lordship cut off supplies and had him come back and live
here, Freddie was asking for it - believe me! Fell in love with a
girl in the chorus of one of the theaters. Used to send me to the
stage door with notes and flowers every night for weeks, as
regular as clockwork.
"What was her name? It's on the tip of my tongue. Funny how you
forget these things! Freddie was pretty far gone. I recollect
once, happening to be looking round his room in his absence,
coming on a poem he had written to her. It was hot stuff - very
hot! If that girl has kept those letters it's my belief we shall
see Freddie following in Lord Stockheath's footsteps."
There was a hush of delighted horror round the table.
"Goo'," said Miss Chester's escort with unction. "You don't say
so, Mr. Judson! It wouldn't half make them look silly if the
Honorable Frederick was sued for breach just now, with the
wedding coming on!"
"There is no danger of that."
It was Joan's voice, and she had spoken with such decision that
she had the ear of the table immediately. All eyes looked in her
direction. Ashe was struck with her expression. Her eyes were
shining as though she were angry; and there was a flush on her
face. A phrase he had used in the train came back to him. She
looked like a princess in disguise.
"What makes you say that, Miss Simpson?" inquired Judson,
annoyed. He had been at pains to make the company's flesh creep,
and it appeared to be Joan's aim to undo his work.
It seemed to Ashe that Joan made an effort of some sort as though
she were pulling herself together and remembering where she was.
"Well," she said, almost lamely, "I don't think it at all likely
that he proposed marriage to this girl."
"You never can tell," said Judson. "My impression is that Freddie
did. It's my belief that there's something on his mind these
days. Before he went to London with his lordship the other day he
was behaving very strange. And since he came back it's my belief
that he has been brooding. And I happen to know he followed the
affair of Lord Stockheath pretty closely, for he clipped the
clippings out of the paper. I found them myself one day when I
happened to be going through his things."
Beach cleared his throat - his mode of indicating that he was
about to monopolize the conversation.
"And in any case, Miss Simpson," he said solemnly, "with things
come to the pass they have come to, and the juries - drawn from
the lower classes - in the nasty mood they're in, it don't seem
hardly necessary in these affairs for there to have been any
definite promise of marriage. What with all this socialism
rampant, they seem so happy at the idea of being able to do one
of us an injury that they give heavy damages without it. A few
ardent expressions, and that's enough for them. You recollect the
Havant case, and when young Lord Mount Anville was sued? What it
comes to is that anarchy is getting the upper hand, and the lower
classes are getting above themselves. It's all these here cheap
newspapers that does it. They tempt the lower classes to get
above themselves.
"Only this morning I had to speak severe to that young fellow,
James, the footman. He was a good young fellow once and did his
work well, and had a proper respect for people; but now he's gone
all to pieces. And why? Because six months ago he had the
rheumatism, and had the audacity to send his picture and a
testimonial, saying that it had cured him of awful agonies, to
Walkinshaw's Supreme Ointment, and they printed it in half a
dozen papers; and it has been the ruin of James. He has got above
himself and don't care for nobody."
"Well, all I can say is," resumed Judson, "that I hope to
goodness nothing won't happen to Freddie of that kind; for it's
not every girl that would have him."
There was a murmur of assent to this truth.
"Now your Miss Peters," said Judson tolerantly - "she seems a nice
little thing."
"She would be pleased to hear you say so," said Joan.
"Joan Valentine!" cried Judson, bringing his hands down on the
tablecloth with a bang. "I've just remembered it. That was the
name of the girl Freddie used to write the letters and poems to;
and that's who it is I've been trying all along to think you
reminded me of, Miss Simpson. You're the living image of
Freddie's Miss Joan Valentine."
Ashe was not normally a young man of particularly ready wit; but
on this occasion it may have been that the shock of this
revelation, added to the fact that something must be done
speedily if Joan's discomposure was not to become obvious to all
present, quickened his intelligence. Joan, usually so sure of
herself, so ready of resource, had gone temporarily to pieces.
She was quite white, and her eyes met Ashe's with almost a hunted
expression.
If the attention of the company was to be diverted, something
drastic must be done. A mere verbal attempt to change the
conversation would be useless. Inspiration descended on Ashe.
In the days of his childhood in Hayling, Massachusetts, he had
played truant from Sunday school again and again in order to
frequent the society of one Eddie Waffles, the official bad boy
of the locality. It was not so much Eddie's charm of conversation
which had attracted him - though that had been great - as the fact
that Eddie, among his other accomplishments, could give a
lifelike imitation of two cats fighting in a back yard; and Ashe
felt that he could never be happy until he had acquired this gift
from the master.
In course of time he had done so. It might be that his absences
from Sunday school in the cause of art had left him in later
years a trifle shaky on the subject of the Kings of Judah, but
his hard-won accomplishment had made him in request at every
smoking concert at Oxford; and it saved the situation now.
"Have you ever heard two cats fighting in a back yard?" he
inquired casually of his neighbor, Miss Willoughby.
The next moment the performance was in full swing. Young Master
Waffles, who had devoted considerable study to his subject, had
conceived the combat of his imaginary cats in a broad, almost
Homeric, vein. The unpleasantness opened with a low gurgling
sound, answered by another a shade louder and possibly more
querulous. A momentary silence was followed by a long-drawn note,
like rising wind, cut off abruptly and succeeded by a grumbling
mutter. The response to this was a couple of sharp howls. Both
parties to the contest then indulged in a discontented whining,
growing louder and louder until the air was full of electric
menace. And then, after another sharp silence, came war, noisy
and overwhelming.
Standing at Master Waffles' side, you could follow almost every
movement of that intricate fray, and mark how now one and now the
other of the battlers gained a short-lived advantage. It was a
great fight. Shrewd blows were taken and given, and in the eye of
the imagination you could see the air thick with flying fur.
Louder and louder grew the din; and then, at its height, it
ceased in one crescendo of tumult, and all was still, save for a
faint, angry moaning.
Such was the cat fight of Master Eddie Waffles; and Ashe, though
falling short of the master, as a pupil must, rendered it
faithfully and with energy.
To say that the attention of the company was diverted from Mr.
Judson and his remarks by the extraordinary noises which
proceeded from Ashe's lips would be to offer a mere shadowy
suggestion of the sensation caused by his efforts. At first,
stunned surprise, then consternation, greeted him. Beach, the
butler, was staring as one watching a miracle, nearer apparently
to apoplexy than ever. On the faces of the others every shade of
emotion was to be seen.
That this should be happening in the steward's room at Blandings
Castle was scarcely less amazing than if it had taken place in a
cathedral. The upper servants, rigid in their seats, looked at
each other, like Cortes' soldiers - "with a wild surmise."
The last faint moan of feline defiance died away and silence fell
on the room. Ashe turned to Miss Willoughby.
"Just like that!" he said. "I was telling Miss Willoughby," he
added apologetically to Mrs. Twemlow, "about the cats in London.
They were a great trial."
For perhaps three seconds his social reputation swayed to and fro
in the balance, while the company pondered on what he had done.
It was new; but it was humorous - or was it vulgar? There is
nothing the English upper servant so abhors as vulgarity. That
was what the steward's room was trying to make up its mind about.
Then Miss Willoughby threw her shapely head back and the squeal
of her laughter smote the ceiling. And at that the company made
its decision. Everybody laughed. Everybody urged Ashe to give an
encore. Everybody was his friend and admirer - -everybody but
Beach, the butler. Beach, the butler, was shocked to his very
core. His heavy-lidded eyes rested on Ashe with disapproval. It
seemed to Beach, the butler, that this young man Marson had got
above himself.
* * *
Ashe found Joan at his side. Dinner was over and the diners were
making for the housekeeper's room.
"Thank you, Mr. Marson. That was very good of you and very
clever." Her eyes twinkled. "But what a terrible chance you took!
You have made yourself a popular success, but you might just as
easily have become a social outcast. As it is, I am afraid Mr.
Beach did not approve."
"I'm afraid he didn't. In a minute or so I'm going to fawn on him
and make all well."
Joan lowered her voice.
"It was quite true, what that odious little man said. Freddie
Threepwood did write me letters. Of course I destroyed them long
ago."
"But weren't you running the risk in coming here that he might
recognize you? Wouldn't that make it rather unpleasant for you?"
"I never met him, you see. He only wrote to me. When he came to
the station to meet us this evening he looked startled to see me;
so I suppose he remembers my appearance. But Aline will have told
him that my name is Simpson."
"That fellow Judson said he was brooding. I think you ought to
put him out of his misery."
"Mr. Judson must have been letting his imagination run away with
him. He is out of his misery. He sent a horrid fat man named
Jones to see me in London about the letters, and I told him I had
destroyed them. He must have let him know that by this time."
"I see."
They went into the housekeeper's room. Mr. Beach was standing
before the fire. Ashe went up to him. It was not an easy matter
to mollify Mr. Beach. Ashe tried the most tempting topics. He
mentioned swollen feet - he dangled the lining of Mr. Beach's
stomach temptingly before his eyes; but the butler was not to be
softened. Only when Ashe turned the conversation to the subject
of the museum did a flicker of animation stir him.
Mr. Beach was fond and proud of the Blandings Castle museum. It
had been the means of getting him into print for the first and
only time in his life. A year before, a representative of the
Intelligencer and Echo, from the neighboring town of Blatchford,
had come to visit the castle on behalf of his paper; and he had
begun one section of his article with the words: "Under the
auspices of Mr. Beach, my genial cicerone, I then visited his
lordship's museum - " Mr. Beach treasured the clipping in a
special writing-desk.
He responded almost amiably to Ashe's questions. Yes; he had seen
the scarab - he pronounced it scayrub - which Mr. Peters had
presented to his lordship. He understood that his lordship
thought very highly of Mr. Peters' scayrub. He had overheard Mr.
Baxter telling his lordship that it was extremely valuable.
"Mr. Beach," said Ashe, "I wonder whether you would take me to
see Lord Emsworth's museum?"
Mr. Beach regarded him heavily.
"I shall be pleased to take you to see his lordship's museum," he
replied.
* * *
One can attribute only to the nervous mental condition following
the interview he had had with Ashe in his bedroom the rash act
Mr. Peters attempted shortly after dinner.
Mr. Peters, shortly after dinner, was in a dangerous and reckless
mood. He had had a wretched time all through the meal. The
Blandings chef had extended himself in honor of the house party,
and had produced a succession of dishes, which in happier days
Mr. Peters would have devoured eagerly. To be compelled by
considerations of health to pass these by was enough to damp the
liveliest optimist. Mr. Peters had suffered terribly. Occasions
of feasting and revelry like the present were for him so many
battlefields, on which greed fought with prudence.
All through dinner he brooded on Ashe's defiance and the horrors
which were to result from that defiance. One of Mr. Peters' most
painful memories was of a two weeks' visit he had once paid to
Mr. Muldoon in his celebrated establishment at White Plains. He
had been persuaded to go there by a brother millionaire whom,
until then, he had always regarded as a friend. The memory of Mr.
Muldoon's cold shower baths and brisk system of physical exercise
still lingered.
The thought that under Ashe's rule he was to go through privately
very much what he had gone through in the company of a gang of
other unfortunates at Muldoon's froze him with horror. He knew
those health cranks who believed that all mortal ailments could
be cured by cold showers and brisk walks. They were all alike and
they nearly killed you. His worst nightmare was the one where he
dreamed he was back at Muldoon's, leading his horse up that
endless hill outside the village.
He would not stand it! He would be hanged if he'd stand it! He
would defy Ashe. But if he defied Ashe, Ashe would go away; and
then whom could he find to recover his lost scarab?
Mr. Peters began to appreciate the true meaning of the phrase
about the horns of a dilemma. The horns of this dilemma occupied
his attention until the end of the dinner. He shifted uneasily
from one to the other and back again. He rose from the table in a
thoroughly overwrought condition of mind. And then, somehow, in
the course of the evening, he found himself alone in the hall,
not a dozen feet from the unlocked museum door.
It was not immediately that he appreciated the significance of
this fact. He had come to the hall because its solitude suited
his mood. It was only after he had finished a cigar - Ashe could
not stop his smoking after dinner - that it suddenly flashed on
him that he had ready at hand a solution of all his troubles. A
brief minute's resolute action and the scarab would be his again,
and the menace of Ashe a thing of the past. He glanced about him.
Yes; he was alone.
Not once since the removal of the scarab had begun to exercise
his mind had Mr. Peters contemplated for an instant the
possibility of recovering it himself. The prospect of the
unpleasantness that would ensue had been enough to make him
regard such an action as out of the question. The risk was too
great to be considered for a moment; but here he was, in a
position where the risk was negligible!
Like Ashe, he had always visualized the recovery of his scarab as
a thing of the small hours, a daring act to be performed when
sleep held the castle in its grip. That an opportunity would be
presented to him of walking in quite calmly and walking out again
with the Cheops in his pocket, had never occurred to him as a
possibility.
Yet now this chance was presenting itself in all its simplicity,
and all he had to do was to grasp it. The door of the museum was
not even closed. He could see from where he stood that it was
ajar.
He moved cautiously in its direction - not in a straight line as
one going to a museum, but circuitously as one strolling without
an aim. From time to time he glanced over his shoulder. He
reached the door, hesitated, and passed it. He turned, reached
the door again - and again passed it. He stood for a moment
darting his eyes about the hall; then, in a burst of resolution,
he dashed for the door and shot in like a rabbit.
At the same moment the Efficient Baxter, who, from the shelter of
a pillar on the gallery that ran around two-thirds of the hall,
had been eyeing the peculiar movements of the distinguished guest
with considerable interest for some minutes, began to descend the
stairs.
Rupert Baxter, the Earl of Emsworth's indefatigable private
secretary, was one of those men whose chief characteristic is a
vague suspicion of their fellow human beings. He did not suspect
them of this or that definite crime; he simply suspected them. He
prowled through life as we are told the hosts of Midian prowled.
His powers in this respect were well-known at Blandings Castle.
The Earl of Emsworth said: "Baxter is invaluable - positively
invaluable." The Honorable Freddie said: "A chappie can't take a
step in this bally house without stumbling over that damn feller,
Baxter!" The manservant and the maidservant within the gates,
like Miss Willoughby, employing that crisp gift for
characterization which is the property of the English lower
orders, described him as a Nosy Parker.
Peering over the railing of the balcony and observing the curious
movements of Mr. Peters, who, as a matter of fact, while making
up his mind to approach the door, had been backing and filling
about the hall in a quaint serpentine manner like a man trying to
invent a new variety of the tango, the Efficient Baxter had found
himself in some way - why, he did not know - of what, he could not
say - but in some nebulous way, suspicious.
He had not definitely accused Mr. Peters in his mind of any
specific tort or malfeasance. He had merely felt that something
fishy was toward. He had a sixth sense in such matters.
But when Mr. Peters, making up his mind, leaped into the museum,
Baxter's suspicions lost their vagueness and became crystallized.
Certainty descended on him like a bolt from the skies. On oath,
before a notary, the Efficient Baxter would have declared that J.
Preston Peters was about to try to purloin the scarab.
Lest we should seem to be attributing too miraculous powers of
intuition to Lord Emsworth's secretary, it should be explained
that the mystery which hung about that curio had exercised his
mind not a little since his employer had given it to him to place
in the museum. He knew Lord Emsworth's power of forgetting and he
did not believe his account of the transaction. Scarab maniacs
like Mr. Peters did not give away specimens from their
collections as presents. But he had not divined the truth of what
had happened in London.
The conclusion at which he had arrived was that Lord Emsworth had
bought the scarab and had forgotten all about it. To support this
theory was the fact that the latter had taken his check book to
London with him. Baxter's long acquaintance with the earl had
left him with the conviction that there was no saying what he
might not do if left loose in London with a check book.
As to Mr. Peters' motive for entering the museum, that, too,
seemed completely clear to the secretary. He was a curio
enthusiast himself and he had served collectors in a secretarial
capacity; and he knew, both from experience and observation, that
strange madness which may at any moment afflict the collector,
blotting out morality and the nice distinction between meum and
tuum, as with a sponge. He knew that collectors who would not
steal a loaf if they were starving might - and did - fall before
the temptation of a coveted curio.
He descended the stairs three at a time, and entered the museum
at the very instant when Mr. Peters' twitching fingers were about
to close on his treasure. He handled the delicate situation with
eminent tact. Mr. Peters, at the sound of his step, had executed a
backward leap, which was as good as a confession of guilt, and
his face was rigid with dismay; but the Efficient Baxter
pretended not to notice these phenomena. His manner, when he
spoke, was easy and unembarrassed.
"Ah! Taking a look at our little collection, Mr. Peters? You will
see that we have given the place of honor to your Cheops. It is
certainly a fine specimen - a wonderfully fine specimen."
Mr. Peters was recovering slowly. Baxter talked on, to give him
time. He spoke of Mut and Bubastis, of Ammon and the Book of the
Dead. He directed the other's attention to the Roman coins.
He was touching on some aspects of the Princess Gilukhipa of
Mitanni, in whom his hearer could scarcely fail to be interested,
when the door opened and Beach, the butler, came in, accompanied
by Ashe. In the bustle of the interruption Mr. Peters escaped,
glad to be elsewhere, and questioning for the first time in his
life the dictum that if you want a thing well done you must do it
yourself.
"I was not aware, sir," said Beach, the butler, "that you were in
occupation of the museum. I would not have intruded; but this
young man expressed a desire to examine the exhibits, and I took
the liberty of conducting him."
"Come in, Beach - come in," said Baxter.
The light fell on Ashe's face, and he recognized him as the
cheerful young man who had inquired the way to Mr. Peters' room
before dinner and who, he had by this time discovered, was not
the Honorable Freddie's friend, George Emerson - or, indeed, any
other of the guests of the house. He felt suspicious.
"Oh, Beach!"
"Sir?"
"Just a moment."
He drew the butler into the hall, out of earshot.
"Beach, who is that man?"
"Mr. Peters' valet, sir."
"Mr. Peters' valet!"
"Yes, sir."
"Has he been in service long?" asked Baxter, remembering that a
mere menial had addressed him as "old man."
Beach lowered his voice. He and the Efficient Baxter were old
allies, and it seemed right to Beach to confide in him.
"He has only just joined Mr. Peters, sir; and he has never been
in service before. He told me so himself, and I was unable to
elicit from him any information as to his antecedents. His manner
struck me, sir, as peculiar. It crossed my mind to wonder whether
Mr. Peters happened to be aware of this. I should dislike to do
any young man an injury; but it might be anyone coming to a
gentleman without a character, like this young man. Mr. Peters
might have been deceived, sir."
The Efficient Baxter's manner became distraught. His mind was
working rapidly.
"Should he be informed, sir?"
"Eh! Who?"
"Mr. Peters, sir - in case he should have been deceived?"
"No, no; Mr. Peters knows his own business."
"Far from me be it to appear officious, sir; but - "
"Mr. Peters probably knows all about him. Tell me, Beach, who was
it suggested this visit to the museum? Did you?"
"It was at the young man's express desire that I conducted him,
sir."
The Efficient Baxter returned to the museum without a word.
Ashe, standing in the middle of the room, was impressing the
topography of the place on his memory. He was unaware of the
piercing stare of suspicion that was being directed at him from
behind.
He did not see Baxter. He was not even thinking of Baxter; but
Baxter was on the alert. Baxter was on the warpath. Baxter knew!
CHAPTER VI
Among the compensations of advancing age is a wholesome
pessimism, which, though it takes the fine edge off of whatever
triumphs may come to us, has the admirable effect of preventing
Fate from working off on us any of those gold bricks, coins with
strings attached, and unhatched chickens, at which ardent youth
snatches with such enthusiasm, to its subsequent disappointment.
As we emerge from the twenties we grow into a habit of mind that
looks askance at Fate bearing gifts. We miss, perhaps, the
occasional prize, but we also avoid leaping light-heartedly into
traps.
Ashe Marson had yet to reach the age of tranquil mistrust; and
when Fate seemed to be treating him kindly he was still young
enough to accept such kindnesses on their face value and rejoice
at them.
As he sat on his bed at the end of his first night in Castle
Blandings, he was conscious to a remarkable degree that Fortune
was treating him well. He had survived - not merely without
discredit, but with positive triumph - the initiatory plunge into
the etiquette maelstrom of life below stairs. So far from doing
the wrong thing and drawing down on himself the just scorn of the
steward's room, he had been the life and soul of the party. Even
if to-morrow, in an absent-minded fit, he should anticipate the
groom of the chambers in the march to the table, he would be
forgiven; for the humorist has his privileges.
So much for that. But that was only a part of Fortune's
kindnesses. To have discovered on the first day of their
association the correct method of handling and reducing to
subjection his irascible employer was an even greater boon. A
prolonged association with Mr. Peters on the lines in which their
acquaintance had begun would have been extremely trying. Now, by
virtue of a fortunate stand at the outset, he had spiked the
millionaire's guns.
Thirdly, and most important of all, he had not only made himself
familiar with the locality and surroundings of the scarab, but he
had seen, beyond the possibility of doubt, that the removal of it
and the earning of the five thousand dollars would be the
simplest possible task. Already he was spending the money in his
mind. And to such lengths had optimism led him that, as he sat on
his bed reviewing the events of the day, his only doubt was
whether to get the scarab at once or to let it remain where it
was until he had the opportunity of doing Mr. Peters' interior
good on the lines he had mapped out in their conversation; for,
of course, directly he had restored the scarab to its rightful
owner and pocketed the reward, his position as healer and trainer
to the millionaire would cease automatically.
He was sorry for that, because it troubled him to think that a
sick man would not be made well; but, on the whole, looking at it
from every aspect, it would be best to get the scarab as soon as
possible and leave Mr. Peters' digestion to look after itself.
Being twenty-six and an optimist, he had no suspicion that Fate