Something New

by P. G. Wodehouse

  CHAPTER IX

  As we grow older and realize more clearly the limitations ofhuman happiness, we come to see that the only real and abidingpleasure in life is to give pleasure to other people. One mustassume that the Efficient Baxter had not reached the age whenthis comes home to a man, for the fact that he had given genuinepleasure to some dozens of his fellow-men brought him no balm.

  There was no doubt about the pleasure he had given. Once they hadgot over their disappointment at finding that he was not a deadburglar, the house party rejoiced whole-heartedly at the break inthe monotony of life at Blandings Castle. Relations who had notbeen on speaking terms for years forgot their quarrels andstrolled about the grounds in perfect harmony, abusing Baxter.The general verdict was that he was insane.

  "Don't tell me that young fellow's all there," said ColonelHorace Mant; "because I know better. Have you noticed his eye?Furtive! Shifty! Nasty gleam in it. Besides--dash it!--did youhappen to take a look at the hall last night after he had beenthere? It was in ruins, my dear sir--absolute dashed ruins. Itwas positively littered with broken china and tables that hadbeen bowled over. Don't tell me that was just an accidentalcollision in the dark.

  "My dear sir, the man must have been thrashing about--absolutelythrashing about, like a dashed salmon on a dashed hook. He musthave had a paroxysm of some kind--some kind of a dashed fit. Adoctor could give you the name for it. It's a well-known form ofinsanity. Paranoia--isn't that what they call it? Rush of bloodto the head, followed by a general running amuck.

  "I've heard fellows who have been in India talk of it. Nativesget it. Don't know what they're doing, and charge through thestreets taking cracks at people with dashed whacking greatknives. Same with this young man, probably in a modified form atpresent. He ought to be in a home. One of these nights, if thisgrows on him, he will be massacring Emsworth in his bed."

  "My dear Horace!" The Bishop of Godalming's voice was properlyhorror-stricken; but there was a certain unctuous relish in it.

  "Take my word for it! Though, mind you, I don't say they aren'twell suited. Everyone knows that Emsworth has been, to allpractical intents and purposes, a dashed lunatic for years. Whatwas it that young fellow Emerson, Freddie's American friend, wassaying, the other day about some acquaintance of his who is notquite right in the head? Nobody in the house--is that it?Something to that effect, at any rate. I felt at the time it wasa perfect description of Emsworth."

  "My dear Horace! Your father-in-law! The head of the family!"

  "A dashed lunatic, my dear sir--head of the family or no head ofthe family. A man as absent-minded as he is has no right to callhimself sane. Nobody in the house--I recollect it now--nobody inthe house except gas, and that has not been turned on. That'sEmsworth!"

  The Efficient Baxter, who had just left his presence, was feelingmuch the same about his noble employer. After a sleepless nighthe had begun at an early hour to try and corner Lord Emsworth inorder to explain to him the true inwardness of last night'shappenings. Eventually he had tracked him to the museum, where hefound him happily engaged in painting a cabinet of birds' eggs.He was seated on a small stool, a large pot of red paint on thefloor beside him, dabbing at the cabinet with a dripping brush.He was absorbed and made no attempt whatever to follow hissecretary's remarks.

  For ten minutes Baxter gave a vivid picture of his vigil and themanner in which it had been interrupted.

  "Just so; just so, my dear fellow," said the earl when he hadfinished. "I quite understand. All I say is, if you do requireadditional food in the night let one of the servants bring it toyour room before bedtime; then there will be no danger of thesedisturbances. There is no possible objection to your eating ahundred meals a day, my good Baxter, provided you do not rousethe whole house over them. Some of us like to sleep during thenight."

  "But, Lord Emsworth! I have just explained--It was not--I wasnot--"

  "Never mind, my dear fellow; never mind. Why make such animportant thing of it? Many people like a light snack beforeactually retiring. Doctors, I believe, sometimes recommend it.Tell me, Baxter, how do you think the museum looks now? A littlebrighter? Better for the dash of color? I think so. Museums aregenerally such gloomy places."

  "Lord Emsworth, may I explain once again?"

  The earl looked annoyed.

  "My dear Baxter, I have told you that there is nothing toexplain. You are getting a little tedious. What a deep, rich redthis is, and how clean new paint smells! Do you know, Baxter, Ihave been longing to mess about with paint ever since I was aboy! I recollect my old father beating me with a walking stick.. . . That would be before your time, of course. By the way, ifyou see Freddie, will you tell him I want to speak to him? Heprobably is in the smoking-room. Send him to me here."

  It was an overwrought Baxter who delivered the message to theHonorable Freddie, who, as predicted, was in the smoking-room,lounging in a deep armchair.

  There are times when life presses hard on a man, and it pressedhard on Baxter now. Fate had played him a sorry trick. It had puthim in a position where he had to choose between two courses,each as disagreeable as the other. He must either face a possiblesecond fiasco like that of last night, or else he must abandonhis post and cease to mount guard over his threatened treasure.

  His imagination quailed at the thought of a repetition of lastnight's horrors. He had been badly shaken by his collision withthe table and even more so by the events that had followed it.Those revolver shots still rang in his ears.

  It was probably the memory of those shots that turned the scale.It was unlikely he would again become entangled with a manbearing a tongue and the other things--he had given up in despairthe attempt to unravel the mystery of the tongue; it completelybaffled him--but it was by no means unlikely that if he spentanother night in the gallery looking on the hall he might notagain become a target for Lord Emsworth's irresponsible firearm.Nothing, in fact, was more likely; for in the disturbed state ofthe public mind the slightest sound after nightfall would besufficient cause for a fusillade.

  He had actually overheard young Algernon Wooster telling LordStockheath he had a jolly good mind to sit on the stairs thatnight with a shotgun, because it was his opinion that there was ajolly sight more in this business than there seemed to be; andwhat he thought of the bally affair was that there was a gang ofsome kind at work, and that that feller--what's-his-name?--thatfeller Baxter was some sort of an accomplice.

  With these things in his mind Baxter decided to remain that nightin the security of his bedroom. He had lost his nerve. He formedthis decision with the utmost reluctance, for the thought ofleaving the road to the museum clear for marauders was bitter inthe extreme. If he could have overheard a conversation betweenJoan Valentine and Ashe Marson it is probable he would haverisked Lord Emsworth's revolver and the shotgun of the HonorableAlgernon Wooster.

  Ashe, when he met Joan and recounted the events of the night, atwhich Joan, who was a sound sleeper, had not been present, wasinclined to blame himself as a failure. True, fate had beenagainst him, but the fact remained that he had achieved nothing.Joan, however, was not of this opinion.

  "You have done wonders," she said. "You have cleared the way forme. That is my idea of real teamwork. I'm so glad now that weformed our partnership. It would have been too bad if I had gotall the advantage of your work and had jumped in and deprived youof the reward. As it is, I shall go down and finish the thing offto-night with a clear conscience."

  "You can't mean that you dream of going down to the museumto-night!"

  "Of course I do."

  "But it's madness!"

  "On the contrary, to-night is the one night when there ought tobe no risk at all."

  "After what happened last night?"

  "Because of what happened last night. Do you imagine Mr. Baxterwill dare to stir from his bed after that? If ever there was achance of getting this thing finished, it will be to-night."

  "You're quite right. I never looked at it in that way. Baxterwouldn't risk a second di
saster. I'll certainly make a success ofit this time."

  Joan raised her eyebrows.

  "I don't quite understand you, Mr. Marson. Do you propose to tryto get the scarab to-night?"

  "Yes. It will be as easy as--"

  "Are you forgetting that, by the terms of our agreement, it is myturn?"

  "You surely don't intend to hold me to that?"

  "Certainly I do."

  "But, good heavens, consider my position! Do you seriously expectme to lie in bed while you do all the work, and then to take ahalf share in the reward?"

  "I do."

  "It's ridiculous!"

  "It's no more ridiculous than that I should do the same. Mr.Marson, there's no use in our going over all this again. Wesettled it long ago."

  Joan refused to discuss the matter further, leaving Ashe in acondition of anxious misery comparable only to that which, asnight began to draw near, gnawed the vitals of the EfficientBaxter.

  * * *

  Breakfast at Blandings Castle was an informal meal. There wasfood and drink in the long dining-hall for such as were energeticenough to come down and get it; but the majority of the houseparty breakfasted in their rooms, Lord Emsworth, whom nothing inthe world would have induced to begin the day in the company of acrowd of his relations, most of whom he disliked, setting themthe example.

  When, therefore, Baxter, yielding to Nature after having remainedawake until the early morning, fell asleep at nine o'clock,nobody came to rouse him. He did not ring his bell, so he was notdisturbed; and he slept on until half past eleven, by which time,it being Sunday morning and the house party including one bishopand several of the minor clergy, most of the occupants of theplace had gone off to church.

  Baxter shaved and dressed hastily, for he was in state of nervousapprehension. He blamed himself for having lain in bed so long.When every minute he was away might mean the loss of the scarab,he had passed several hours in dreamy sloth. He had wakened witha presentiment. Something told him the scarab had been stolen inthe night, and he wished now that he had risked all and keptguard.

  The house was very quiet as he made his way rapidly to the hall.As he passed a window he perceived Lord Emsworth, in anun-Sabbatarian suit of tweeds and bearing a garden fork--whichmust have pained the bishop--bending earnestly over a flower bed;but he was the only occupant of the grounds, and indoors therewas a feeling of emptiness. The hall had that Sunday-morning airof wanting to be left to itself, and disapproving of the entry ofanything human until lunch time, which can be felt only by aguest in a large house who remains at home when his fellows havegone to church.

  The portraits on the walls, especially the one of the Countess ofEmsworth in the character of Venus rising from the sea, stared atBaxter as he entered, with cold reproof. The very chairs seemeddistant and unfriendly; but Baxter was in no mood to appreciatetheir attitude. His conscience slept. His mind was occupied, tothe exclusion of all other things, by the scarab and its probablefate. How disastrously remiss it had been of him not to keepguard last night! Long before he opened the museum door he wasfeeling the absolute certainty that the worst had happened.

  It had. The card which announced that here was an Egyptian scarabof the reign of Cheops of the Fourth Dynasty, presented by J.Preston Peters, Esquire, still lay on the cabinet in its wontedplace; but now its neat lettering was false and misleading. Thescarab was gone.

  * * *

  For all that he had expected this, for all his premonition ofdisaster, it was an appreciable time before the Efficient Baxterrallied from the blow. He stood transfixed, goggling at the emptyplace.

  Then his mind resumed its functions. All, he perceived, was notyet lost. Baxter the watchdog must retire, to be succeeded byBaxter the sleuthhound. He had been unable to prevent the theftof the scarab, but he might still detect the thief.

  For the Doctor Watsons of this world, as opposed to the SherlockHolmeses, success in the province of detective work must alwaysbe, to a very large extent, the result of luck. Sherlock Holmescan extract a clew from a wisp of straw or a flake of cigar ash;but Doctor Watson has to have it taken out for him and dusted,and exhibited clearly, with a label attached.

  The average man is a Doctor Watson. We are wont to scoff in apatronizing manner at that humble follower of the greatinvestigator; but as a matter of fact we should have been just asdull ourselves. We should not even have risen to the modestheight of a Scotland Yard bungler.

  Baxter was a Doctor Watson. What he wanted was a clew; but it isso hard for the novice to tell what is a clew and what is not.And then he happened to look down--and there on the floor was aclew that nobody could have overlooked.

  Baxter saw it, but did not immediately recognize it for what itwas. What he saw, at first, was not a clew, but just a mess. Hehad a tidy soul and abhorred messes, and this was a particularlymessy mess. A considerable portion of the floor was a sea of redpaint. The can from which it had flowed was lying on itsside--near the wall. He had noticed that the smell of paint hadseemed particularly pungent, but had attributed this to a newfreshet of energy on the part of Lord Emsworth. He had notperceived that paint had been spilled.

  "Pah!" said Baxter.

  Then suddenly, beneath the disguise of the mess, he saw the clew.A footmark! No less. A crimson footmark on the polished wood! Itwas as clear and distinct as though it had been left there forthe purpose of assisting him. It was a feminine footmark, theprint of a slim and pointed shoe.

  This perplexed Baxter. He had looked on the siege of the scarabas an exclusively male affair. But he was not perplexed long.What could be simpler than that Mr. Peters should have enlistedfemale aid? The female of the species is more deadly than themale. Probably she makes a better purloiner of scarabs. At anyrate, there the footprint was, unmistakably feminine.

  Inspiration came to him. Aline Peters had a maid! What morelikely than that secretly she should be a hireling of Mr. Peters,on whom he had now come to look as a man of the blackest and mostsinister character? Mr. Peters was a collector; and when acollector makes up his mind to secure a treasure, he employs,Baxter knew, every possible means to that end.

  Baxter was now in a state of great excitement. He was hot on thescent and his brain was working like a buzz saw in an ice box.According to his reasoning, if Aline Peters' maid had done thisthing there should be red paint in the hall marking her retreat,and possibly a faint stain on the stairs leading to the servants'bedrooms.

  He hastened from the museum and subjected the hall to a keenscrutiny. Yes; there was red paint on the carpet. He passedthrough the green-baize door and examined the stairs. On thebottom step there was a faint but conclusive stain of crimson!

  He was wondering how best to follow up this clew when heperceived Ashe coming down the stairs. Ashe, like Baxter, and asthe result of a night disturbed by anxious thoughts, had alsooverslept himself.

  There are moments when the giddy excitement of being right on thetrail causes the amateur--or Watsonian--detective to beincautious. If Baxter had been wise he would have achieved hisobject--the getting a glimpse of Joan's shoes--by a devious andsnaky route. As it was, zeal getting the better of prudence, herushed straight on. His early suspicion of Ashe had beentemporarily obscured. Whatever Ashe's claims to be a suspect, ithad not been his footprint Baxter had seen in the museum.

  "Here, you!" said the Efficient Baxter excitedly.

  "Sir?"

  "The shoes!"

  "I beg your pardon?"

  "I wish to see the servants' shoes. Where are they?"

  "I expect they have them on, sir."

  "Yesterday's shoes, man--yesterday's shoes. Where are they?"

  "Where are the shoes of yesteryear?" murmured Ashe. "I should sayat a venture, sir, that they would be in a large basket somewherenear the kitchen. Our genial knife-and-shoe boy collects them, Ibelieve, at early dawn."

  "Would they have been cleaned yet?"

  "If I know the lad, sir--no."

  "Go a
nd bring that basket to me. Bring it to me in this room."

  * * *

  The room to which he referred was none other than the privatesanctum of Mr. Beach, the butler, the door of which, standingopen, showed it to be empty. It was not Baxter's plan, excited ashe was, to risk being discovered sifting shoes in the middle of apassage in the servants' quarters.

  Ashe's brain was working rapidly as he made for the shoecupboard, that little den of darkness and smells, where Billy,the knife-and-shoe boy, better known in the circle in which hemoved as Young Bonehead, pursued his menial tasks. What exactlywas at the back of the Efficient Baxter's mind prompting thesemaneuvers he did not know; but that there was something he wascertain.

  He had not yet seen Joan this morning, and he did not knowwhether or not she had carried out her resolve of attempting tosteal the scarab on the previous night; but this activity andmystery on the part of their enemy must have some sinistersignificance. He gathered up the shoe basket thoughtfully. Hestaggered back with it and dumped it down on the floor of Mr.Beach's room. The Efficient Baxter stooped eagerly over it.Ashe, leaning against the wall, straightened the creases in hisclothes and flicked disgustedly at an inky spot which the journeyhad transferred from the basket to his coat.

  "We have here, sir," he said, "a fair selection of our variousfoot coverings."

  "You did not drop any on your way?"

  "Not one, sir."

  The Efficient Baxter uttered a grunt of satisfaction and bentonce more to his task. Shoes flew about the room. Baxter knelt onthe floor beside the basket, and dug like a terrier at a rathole. At last he made a find and with an exclamation of triumphrose to his feet. In his hand he held a shoe.

  "Put those back," he said.

  Ashe began to pick up the scattered footgear.

  "That's the lot, sir," he said, rising.

  "Now come with me. Leave the basket there. You can carry it backwhen you return."

  "Shall I put back that shoe, sir?"

  "Certainly not. I shall take this one with me."

  "Shall I carry it for you, sir?"

  Baxter reflected.

  "Yes. I think that would be best."

  Trouble had shaken his nerve. He was not certain that there mightnot be others besides Lord Emsworth in the garden; and itoccurred to him that, especially after his reputation foreccentric conduct had been so firmly established by hismisfortunes that night in the hall, it might cause comment shouldhe appear before them carrying a shoe.

  Ashe took the shoe and, doing so, understood what before hadpuzzled him. Across the toe was a broad splash of red paint.Though he had nothing else to go on, he saw all. The shoe he heldwas a female shoe. His own researches in the museum had made himaware of the presence there of red paint. It was not difficult tobuild up on these data a pretty accurate estimate of the positionof affairs.

  "Come with me," said Baxter.

  He left the room. Ashe followed him.

  In the garden Lord Emsworth, garden fork in hand, was dealingsummarily with a green young weed that had incautiously shown itshead in the middle of a flower bed. He listened to Baxter'sstatement with more interest than he usually showed in anybody'sstatements. He resented the loss of the scarab, not so much onaccount of its intrinsic worth as because it had been the gift ofhis friend Mr. Peters.

  "Indeed!" he said, when Baxter had finished. "Really? Dear me!It certainly seems--It is extremely suggestive. You are certainthere was red paint on this shoe?"

  "I have it with me. I brought it on purpose to show you." Helooked at Ashe, who stood in close attendance. "The shoe!"

  Lord Emsworth polished his glasses and bent over the exhibit.

  "Ah!" he said. "Now let me look at--This, you say, is the--Justso; just so! Just--My dear Baxter, it may be that I have notexamined this shoe with sufficient care, but--Can you point outto me exactly where this paint is that you speak of?"

  The Efficient Baxter stood staring at the shoe with wild, fixedstare. Of any suspicion of paint, red or otherwise, it wasabsolutely and entirely innocent!

  The shoe became the center of attraction, the center of all eyes.The Efficient Baxter fixed it with the piercing glare of one whofeels that his brain is tottering. Lord Emsworth looked at itwith a mildly puzzled expression. Ashe Marson examined it with asort of affectionate interest, as though he were waiting for itto do a trick of some kind. Baxter was the first to break thesilence.

  "There was paint on this shoe," he said vehemently. "I tell youthere was a splash of red paint across the toe. This man herewill bear me out in this. You saw paint on this shoe?"

  "Paint, sir?"

  "What! Do you mean to tell me you did not see it?"

  "No, sir; there was no paint on this shoe."

  "This is ridiculous. I saw it with my own eyes. It was a broadsplash right across the toe."

  Lord Emsworth interposed.

  "You must have made a mistake, my dear Baxter. There is certainlyno trace of paint on this shoe. These momentary optical delusionsare, I fancy, not uncommon. Any doctor will tell you--"

  "I had an aunt, your lordship," said Ashe chattily, "who wasremarkably subject--"

  "It is absurd! I cannot have been mistaken," said Baxter. "I ampositively certain the toe of this shoe was red when I found it."

  "It is quite black now, my dear Baxter."

  "A sort of chameleon shoe," murmured Ashe.

  The goaded secretary turned on him.

  "What did you say?"

  "Nothing, sir."

  Baxter's old suspicion of this smooth young man came surging backto him.

  "I strongly suspect you of having had something to do with this."

  "Really, Baxter," said the earl, "that is surely the leastprobable of solutions. This young man could hardly have cleanedthe shoe on his way from the house. A few days ago, when paintingin the museum, I inadvertently splashed some paint on my ownshoe. I can assure you it does not brush off. It needs a verysystematic cleaning before all traces are removed."

  "Exactly, your lordship," said Ashe. "My theory, if I may--"

  "Yes?"

  "My theory, your lordship, is that Mr. Baxter was deceived by thelight-and-shade effects on the toe of the shoe. The morning sun,streaming in through the window, must have shone on the shoe insuch a manner as to give it a momentary and fictitious aspect ofredness. If Mr. Baxter recollects, he did not look long at theshoe. The picture on the retina of the eye consequently had nottime to fade. I myself remember thinking at the moment that theshoe appeared to have a certain reddish tint. The mistake--"

  "Bah!" said Baxter shortly.

  Lord Emsworth, now thoroughly bored with the whole affair anddesiring nothing more than to be left alone with his weeds andhis garden fork, put in his word. Baxter, he felt, was curiouslyirritating these days. He always seemed to be bobbing up. TheEarl of Emsworth was conscious of a strong desire to be free fromhis secretary's company. He was efficient, yes--invaluableindeed--he did not know what he should do without Baxter; butthere was no denying that his company tended after a while tobecome a trifle tedious. He took a fresh grip on his garden forkand shifted it about in the air as a hint that the interview hadlasted long enough.

  "It seems to me, my dear fellow," he said, "the only explanationthat will square with the facts. A shoe that is really smearedwith red paint does not become black of itself in the course of afew minutes."

  "You are very right, your lordship," said Ashe approvingly. "MayI go now, your lordship?"

  "Certainly--certainly; by all means."

  "Shall I take the shoe with me, your lordship?"

  "If you do not want it, Baxter."

  The secretary passed the fraudulent piece of evidence to Ashewithout a word; and the latter, having included both gentlemen ina kindly smile, left the garden.

  On returning to the butler's room, Ashe's first act was to removea shoe from the top of the pile in the basket. He was about toleave the room with it, when the sound of footsteps in thepass
age outside halted him.

  "I do not in the least understand why you wish me to come here,my dear Baxter," said a voice, "and you are completely spoilingmy morning, but--"

  For a moment Ashe was at a loss. It was a crisis that called forswift action, and it was a little hard to know exactly what todo. It had been his intention to carry the paint-splashed shoeback to his own room, there to clean it at his leisure; but itappeared that his strategic line of retreat was blocked. Plainly,the possibility--nay, the certainty--that Ashe had substitutedanother shoe for the one with the incriminating splash of painton it had occurred to the Efficient Baxter almost directly theformer had left the garden.

  The window was open. Ashe looked out. There were bushes below.It was a makeshift policy, and one which did not commend itselfto him as the ideal method, but it seemed the only thing to bedone, for already the footsteps had reached the door. He threwthe shoe out of window, and it sank beneath the friendly surfaceof the long grass round a wisteria bush.

  Ashe turned, relieved, and the next moment the door opened andBaxter walked in, accompanied--with obvious reluctance---by hisbored employer.

  Baxter was brisk and peremptory.

  "I wish to look at those shoes again," he said coldly.

  "Certainly, sir," said Ashe.

  "I can manage without your assistance," said Baxter.

  "Very good, sir."

  Leaning against the wall, Ashe watched him with silent interest,as he burrowed among the contents of the basket, like a terrierdigging for rats. The Earl of Emsworth took no notice of theproceedings. He yawned plaintively, and pottered about the room.He was one of Nature's potterers.

  The scrutiny of the man whom he had now placed definitely as amalefactor irritated Baxter. Ashe was looking at him in aninsufferably tolerant manner, as if he were an indulgent fatherbrooding over his infant son while engaged in some childishfrolic. He lodged a protest.

  "Don't stand there staring at me!"

  "I was interested in what you were doing, sir."

  "Never mind! Don't stare at me in that idiotic way."

  "May I read a book, sir?"

  "Yes, read if you like."

  "Thank you, sir."

  Ashe took a volume from the butler's slenderly stocked shelf. Theshoe-expert resumed his investigations in the basket. He wentthrough it twice, but each time without success. After the secondsearch he stood up and looked wildly about the room. He was ascertain as he could be of anything that the missing piece ofevidence was somewhere within those four walls. There was verylittle cover in the room, even for so small a fugitive as a shoe.He raised the tablecloth and peered beneath the table.

  "Are you looking for Mr. Beach, sir?" said Ashe. "I think he hasgone to church."

  Baxter, pink with his exertions, fastened a baleful glance uponhim.

  "You had better be careful," he said.

  At this point the Earl of Emsworth, having done all the potteringpossible in the restricted area, yawned like an alligator.

  "Now, my dear Baxter--" he began querulously.

  Baxter was not listening. He was on the trail. He had caughtsight of a small closet in the wall, next to the mantelpiece, andit had stimulated him.

  "What is in this closet?"

  "That closet, sir?"

  "Yes, this closet." He rapped the door irritably.

  "I could not say, sir. Mr. Beach, to whom the closet belongs,possibly keeps a few odd trifles there. A ball of string,perhaps. Maybe an old pipe or something of that kind. Probablynothing of value or interest."

  "Open it."

  "It appears to be locked, sir--"

  "Unlock it."

  "But where is the key?"

  Baxter thought for a moment.

  "Lord Emsworth," he said, "I have my reasons for thinking thatthis man is deliberately keeping the contents of this closet fromme. I am convinced that the shoe is in there. Have I your leaveto break open the door?"

  The earl looked a little dazed, as if he were unequal to theintellectual pressure of the conversation.

  "Now, my dear Baxter," said the earl impatiently, "please tell meonce again why you have brought me in here. I cannot make head ortail of what you have been saying. Apparently you accuse thisyoung man of keeping his shoes in a closet. Why should yoususpect him of keeping his shoes in a closet? And if he wishes todo so, why on earth should not he keep his shoes in a closet?This is a free country."

  "Exactly, your lordship," said Ashe approvingly. "You havetouched the spot."

  "It all has to do with the theft of your scarab, Lord Emsworth.Somebody got into the museum and stole the scarab."

  "Ah, yes; ah, yes--so they did. I remember now. You told me.Bad business that, my dear Baxter. Mr. Peters gave me thatscarab. He will be most deucedly annoyed if it's lost. Yes,indeed."

  "Whoever stole it upset the can of red paint and stepped in it."

  "Devilish careless of them. It must have made the dickens of amess. Why don't people look where they are walking?"

  "I suspect this man of shielding the criminal by hiding her shoein this closet."

  "Oh, it's not his own shoes that this young man keeps inclosets?"

  "It is a woman's shoe, Lord Emsworth."

  "The deuce it is! Then it was a woman who stole the scarab? Isthat the way you figure it out? Bless my soul, Baxter, onewonders what women are coming to nowadays. It's all thismovement, I suppose. The Vote, and all that--eh? I recollecthaving a chat with the Marquis of Petersfield some time ago. Heis in the Cabinet, and he tells me it is perfectly infernal theway these women carry on. He said sometimes it got to such apitch, with them waving banners and presenting petitions, andthrowing flour and things at a fellow, that if he saw his ownmother coming toward him, with a hand behind her back, he wouldrun like a rabbit. Told me so himself."

  "So," said the Efficient Baxter, cutting in on the flow ofspeech, "what I wish to do is to break open this closet."

  "Eh? Why?"

  "To get the shoe."

  "The shoe? . . . Ah, yes, I recollect now. You were telling me."

  "If your lordship has no objection."

  "Objection, my dear fellow? None in the world. Why should I haveany objection? Let me see! What is it you wish to do?"

  "This," said Baxter shortly.

  He seized the poker from the fireplace and delivered two rapidblows on the closet door. The wood was splintered. A third blowsmashed the flimsy lock. The closet, with any skeletons it mightcontain, was open for all to view.

  It contained a corkscrew, a box of matches, a paper-covered copyof a book entitled "Mary, the Beautiful Mill-Hand," a bottle ofembrocation, a spool of cotton, two pencil-stubs, and otheruseful and entertaining objects. It contained, in fact, almosteverything except a paint-splashed shoe, and Baxter gazed at thecollection in dumb disappointment.

  "Are you satisfied now, my dear Baxter," said the earl, "or isthere any more furniture that you would like to break? You know,this furniture breaking is becoming a positive craze with you, mydear fellow. You ought to fight against it. The night beforelast, I don't know how many tables broken in the hall; and nowthis closet. You will ruin me. No purse can stand the constantdrain."

  Baxter did not reply. He was still trying to rally from the blow.A chance remark of Lord Emsworth's set him off on the trail oncemore. Lord Emsworth, having said his say, had dismissed theaffair from his mind and begun to potter again. The course of hispottering had brought him to the fireplace, where a little pileof soot on the fender caught his eye. He bent down to inspect it.

  "Dear me!" he said. "I must remember to tell Beach to have hischimney swept. It seems to need it badly."

  No trumpet-call ever acted more instantaneously on old war-horsethan this simple remark on the Efficient Baxter. He was stillconvinced that Ashe had hidden the shoe somewhere in the room,and, now that the closet had proved an alibi, the chimney was theonly spot that remained unsearched. He dived forward with a rush,nearly knocking Lord Emsworth off his feet, and thrust an arm upinto the un
known. The startled peer, having recovered hisbalance, met Ashe's respectfully pitying gaze.

  "We must humor him," said the gaze, more plainly than speech.

  Baxter continued to grope. The chimney was a roomy chimney, andneeded careful examination. He wriggled his hand aboutclutchingly. From time to time soot fell in gentle showers.

  "My dear Baxter!"

  Baxter was baffled. He withdrew his hand from the chimney, andstraightened himself. He brushed a bead of perspiration from hisface with the back of his hand. Unfortunately, he used the sootyhand, and the result was too much for Lord Emsworth's politeness.He burst into a series of pleased chuckles.

  "Your face, my dear Baxter! Your face! It is positively coveredwith soot--positively! You must go and wash it. You are quiteblack. Really, my dear fellow, you present rather anextraordinary appearance. Run off to your room."

  Against this crowning blow the Efficient Baxter could not standup. It was the end.

  "Soot!" he murmured weakly. "Soot!"

  "Your face is covered, my dear fellow--quite covered."

  "It certainly has a faintly sooty aspect, sir," said Ashe.

  His voice roused the sufferer to one last flicker of spirit.

  "You will hear more of this," he said. "You will--"

  At this moment, slightly muffled by the intervening door andpassageway, there came from the direction of the hall a soundlike the delivery of a ton of coal. A heavy body bumped down thestairs, and a voice which all three recognized as that of theHonorable Freddie uttered an oath that lost itself in a finalcrash and a musical splintering sound, which Baxter for one hadno difficulty in recognizing as the dissolution of occasionalchina.

  Even if they had not so able a detective as Baxter with them,Lord Emsworth and Ashe would have been at no loss to guess whathad happened. Doctor Watson himself could have deduced it fromthe evidence. The Honorable Freddie had fallen downstairs.

  * * *

  With a little ingenuity this portion of the story of Mr. Peters'scarab could be converted into an excellent tract, driving homethe perils, even in this world, of absenting one's self fromchurch on Sunday morning. If the Honorable Freddie had gone tochurch he would not have been running down the great staircase atthe castle at this hour; and if he had not been running down thegreat staircase at the castle at that hour he would not haveencountered Muriel.

  Muriel was a Persian cat belonging to Lady Ann Warblington. LadyAnn had breakfasted in bed and lain there late, as she ratherfancied she had one of her sick headaches coming on. Muriel hadleft her room in the wake of the breakfast tray, being anxious tobe present at the obsequies of a fried sole that had formed LadyAnn's simple morning meal, and had followed the maid who bore ituntil she had reached the hall.

  At this point the maid, who disliked Muriel, stopped and made anoise like an exploding pop bottle, at the same time taking alittle run in Muriel's direction and kicking at her with amenacing foot. Muriel, wounded and startled, had turned in hertracks and sprinted back up the staircase at the exact momentwhen the Honorable Freddie, who for some reason was in a greathurry, ran lightly down.

  There was an instant when Freddie could have saved himself byplanting a number-ten shoe on Muriel's spine, but even in thatcrisis he bethought him that he hardly stood solid enough withthe authorities to risk adding to his misdeeds the slaughter ofhis aunt's favorite cat, and he executed a rapid swerve. Thespared cat proceeded on her journey upstairs, while Freddie,touching the staircase at intervals, went on down.

  Having reached the bottom, he sat amid the occasional china, likeMarius among the ruins of Carthage, and endeavored to ascertainthe extent of his injuries. He had a dazed suspicion that he wasirretrievably fractured in a dozen places. It was in thisattitude that the rescue party found him. He gazed up at themwith silent pathos.

  "In the name of goodness, Frederick," said Lord Emsworthpeevishly, "what do you imagine you are doing?"

  Freddie endeavored to rise, but sank back again with a stifledhowl.

  "It was that bally cat of Aunt Ann's," he said. "It came leggingit up the stairs. I think I've broken my leg."

  "You have certainly broken everything else," said his fatherunsympathetically. "Between you and Baxter, I wonder there's astick of furniture standing in the house."

  "Thanks, old chap," said Freddie gratefully as Ashe steppedforward and lent him an arm. "I think my bally ankle must havegot twisted. I wish you would give me a hand up to my room."

  "And, Baxter, my dear fellow," said Lord Emsworth, "you mighttelephone to Doctor Bird, in Market Blandings, and ask him to begood enough to drive out. I am sorry, Freddie," he added, "thatyou should have met with this accident; but--but everything isso--so disturbing nowadays that I feel--I feel most disturbed."

  Ashe and the Honorable Freddie began to move across thehall--Freddie hopping, Ashe advancing with a sort of polka step.As they reached the stairs there was a sound of wheels outsideand the vanguard of the house party, returned from church,entered the house.

  "It's all very well to give it out officially that Freddie hasfallen downstairs and sprained his ankle," said Colonel HoraceMant, discussing the affair with the Bishop of Godalming later inthe afternoon; "but it's my firm belief that that fellow Baxterdid precisely as I said he would--ran amuck and inflicted dashedfrightful injuries on young Freddie. When I got into the housethere was Freddie being helped up the stairs, while Baxter, withhis face covered with soot, was looking after him with a sort ofevil grin. What had he smeared his face with soot for, I shouldlike to know, if he were perfectly sane?

  "The whole thing is dashed fishy and mysterious and the sooner Ican get Mildred safely out of the place, the better I shall bepleased. The fellow's as mad as a hatter!"