 8. Put the butter or drippings in a kettle on the range, and when it's hot, add the onions and fry them. Add the veal and cook until brown. Add the water, cover closely, and cook very slowly until the meat is tender. Then add the seasoning and place the potatoes on top of the meat. Cover and cook until the potatoes are tender, but not falling to pieces. Sure, said Mr. Peters, not falling to pieces. That's right. Go on. Then add the cream and cook five minutes longer, read Ash. Is that all? That's all of that one. Mr. Peters settled himself more comfortably in bed. Read me the piece where it tells about curried lobster. Ash cleared his throat. Curried lobster, he read, materials. Two one-pound lobsters, two teaspoonfuls, lemon juice, half a spoonful curry powder, two tablespoonfuls butter, a tablespoonful flour, one cupful scalded milk, one cupful cracker crumbs, half teaspoonful salt, quarter teaspoonful pepper. Go on. Way of preparing. Cream the butter and flour and add the scalded milk. Then add the lemon juice, curry powder, salt, and pepper. Remove the lobster meat from the shells and cut into half-inch cubes. Half-inch cubes, said Mr. Peters wistfully. Yes. Add the ladder to the sauce. You didn't say anything about the ladder. Oh, I see. It means the half-inch cubes. Yes. Refill the lobster shells. Cover with buttered crumbs and bake until the crumbs are brown. This will serve six persons. And make them feel an hour afterward as though they had swallowed a lied wildcat, said Mr. Peters wistfully. Not necessarily, said Ash. I could eat two portions of that at this very minute and go off to bed and sleep like a little child. Mr. Peters raised himself on his elbow and stared at him. They were in the millionaire's bedroom, the time being one in the morning, and Mr. Peters had expressed the wish that Ash should read him to sleep. He had voted against Ash's novel and produced from the recesses of his suitcase a much-thumbed cookbook. He explained that since his digestive misfortunes had come on him, he had derived a certain solace from its perusal. It may be that to some men, sorrow's crown of sorrow is remembering happier things, but Mr. Peters had not found that to be the case. In his hour of affliction it soothed him to read of Hungarian goulash and escaloped brains, and to remember that he too, the nut-and-grass-eater of today, had once dwelt in Arcadia. The passage of the days which had so sapped the stamina of the efficient Baxter had had the opposite effect on Mr. Peters. His was one of those natures that cannot deal in half measures. Whatever he did, he did with the same driving energy. After the first passionate burst of resistance, he had settled down into a model pupil in Ash's one-man school of physical culture. It had been the same, now that he came to look back on it, at Muldoon's. Now that he remembered, he had come away from white planes hoping, indeed, never to see the place again, but undeniably a different man physically. It was not the habit of Professor Muldoon to let his patients loaf, but Mr. Peters, after the initial plunge, had needed no driving. He had worked hard at his cure then because it was the job in hand. He worked hard now under the guidance of Ash because once he had begun, the thing interested and gripped him. Ash, who had expected continued reluctance, had been astonished and delighted at the way in which the millionaire had behaved. Nature had really intended Ash for a trainer. He identified himself so thoroughly with his man and rejoiced at the least signs of improvement. In Mr. Peters' case there had been distinct improvement already. Miracles do not happen nowadays, and it was too much to expect one who had maltreated his body so consistently for so many years to become whole in a day. But to an optimist like Ash, signs were not wanting that in due season Mr. Peters would rise on stepping stones of his dead self to hire things. And though never soaring into the class that devours Lobster Allah Newberg and smiles after it, might yet prove himself a devil of a fellow among the mutton chops. You're a wonder, said Mr. Peters. You're fresh, and you have no respect for your elders and betters, but you deliver the goods. That's the point. Why, I'm beginning to feel great. Say, do you know I felt a new muscle in the small of my back this morning? They are coming out on me like a rash. That's the Larson exercises. They developed the whole body. Well, you're a pretty good advertisement for them if they need one. What were you before you came to me, a prize fighter? That's the question everybody I have met since I arrived here has asked me. I believe it made the butler think I was some sort of crook when I couldn't answer it. I used to write stories, detective stories. What you ought to be doing is running a place over here in England like Muldoon has back home. But you will be able to write one more story out of this business here if you want to. When are you going to have another try for my scarab? Tonight. Tonight, how about Baxter? I shall have to risk Baxter. Mr. Peters hesitated. He had fallen out of the habit of being magnanimous during the past few years for dyspepsia-brooks no divided allegiance, and magnanimity has to take a back seat when it has its grip on you. See here, he said awkwardly. I've been thinking this over lately, and what's the use? It's a queer thing, and if anybody had told me a week ago that I should be saying it, I wouldn't have believed him. But I am beginning to like you. I don't want to get you into trouble. Let the old scarab go. What's a scarab anyway? Forget about it, and stick on here is my private Muldoon. If it's the five thousand that's worrying you, forget that, too. I'll give it to you as your fee. Ash was astounded that it could really be his peppery employer who spoke was almost unbelievable. Ash's was a friendly nature, and he could never be long associated with anyone without trying to establish pleasant relations. But he had resigned himself in the present case to perpetual warfare. He was touched, and if he had ever contemplated abandoning his venture, this he felt would have spurred him on to see it through. The sudden revelation of the human in Mr. Peters was like a trumpet call. I wouldn't think of it, he said. It's great of you to suggest such a thing, but I know just how you feel about the thing, and I'm going to get it for you if I have to ring Baxter's neck. Probably Baxter will have given up waiting as a bad job by now if he has been watching all this while. We've given him ten nights to cool off. I expect he is in bed dreaming pleasant dreams. It's nearly two o'clock. I'll wait another ten minutes and then go down. He picked up the cookbook. Lie back and make yourself comfortable and I'll read you to sleep first. You're a good boy, said Mr. Peters drowsily. Are you ready? Pork tenderloin larded. Half pound fat pork. A faint smile curved Mr. Peters lips. His eyes were closed and he breathed softly. Ash went on in a low voice. Four large pork tenderloins, one cup full cracker crumbs, one cup full boiling water, two table spoonfuls butter, one tablespoon full salt, half teaspoon full pepper, one teaspoon full poultry seasoning. A little sigh came from the bed. Way of preparing. Wipe the tenderloins with a damp cloth. With a sharp knife make a deep pocket lengthwise in each tenderloin. Cut your pork into long thin strips and with a needle lard each tenderloin. Melt the butter in the water. Add the seasoning and the cracker crumbs, combining all thoroughly. Now fill each pocket in the tenderloin with this stuffing. Place the tenderloins. A snore sounded from the pillows punctuating the recital like a mark of exclamation. Ash laid down the book and peered into the darkness beyond the rays of the bed lamp. His employers slept. Ash switched off the light and crept to the door. Out in the passage he stopped and listened. All was still. He stole downstairs. George Emerson sat in his bedroom in the bachelor's wing of the castle smoking a cigarette. A light of resolution was in his eyes. He glanced at the table beside his bed and at what was on that table and the light of resolution flamed into a glare of fanatic determination. So might a medieval knight have looked on the eve of setting forth to rescue a maiden from a dragon. His cigarette burned down. He looked at his watch, put it back, and led another cigarette. His aspect was the aspect of one waiting for the appointed hour. Smoking his second cigarette he resumed his meditations. They had to do with Aileen Peters. George Emerson was troubled about Aileen Peters. Watching over her as he did with a lover's eye he had perceived that about her which distressed him. On the terrace that morning she had been abrupt to him. What, in a girl of less angelic disposition one might have called snappy. Yes, to be just she had snapped at him. That meant something. It meant that Aileen was not well. It meant what her pallor and tired eyes meant. That the life she was leading was doing her no good. Eleven nights had George dined at Blanding's castle, and on each of the eleven nights he had been distressed to see the manner in which Aileen, declining the baked meat, had restricted herself to the miserable vegetable messes which were all the doctor's orders permitted to her suffering father. George's pity had its limits. His heart did not bleed for Mr. Peters. Mr. Peters' diet was his own affair, but that Aileen should starve herself in this fashion purely by way of moral support for her parent was another matter. George was perhaps a shade material. Himself a robust young man in taking what might be called an outsizing meals he attached perhaps too much importance to food as an adjunct to the perfect life. In his survey of Aileen he took a line through his own requirements, and believing that eleven such dinners as he had seen Aileen Partake of would have killed him he decided that his loved one was on the point of starvation. No human being he held could exist on such barmaside feasts that Mr. Peters continued to do so did not occur to him as a flaw in his reasoning. He looked on Mr. Peters as a sort of machine. Successful businessmen often give that impression to the young. If George had been told that Mr. Peters went along on gasoline like an automobile he would not have been much surprised. But that Aileen his Aileen should have to deny herself the exercise of that mastication of rich meats which together with the gift of speech raises man above the beasts of the field that was what tortured George. He had devoted the day to thinking out a solution of the problem. Such was the overflowing goodness of Aileen's heart that not even he could persuade her to withdraw her moral support from her father and devote herself to keeping up her strength as she should do. It was necessary to think of some other plan. And then a speech of hers had come back to him. She had said, poor child, I do get a little hungry sometimes late at night generally. The problem was solved. Food should be brought to her late at night. On the table by his bed was a stout sheet of packing paper. On this lay, like one of those pictures in still life that one sees on suburban parlor walls, a tongue, some bread, a knife, a fork, salt, a corkscrew and a small bottle of white wine. It is a pleasure when one has been able hitherto to portray George's devotion only through the medium of his speeches to produce these commestibles as exhibit A to show that he loved Aileen with no common love, for it had not been an easy test to get them there. In a house of smaller dimensions he would have raided the Larder without shame, but at Blanding's castle there was no saying where the Larder might be. All he knew was that it lay somewhere beyond that green bay's door opening on the hall, past which he was wont to go on his way to bed. To prowl through the maze of the servants' quarters in search of it was impossible. The only thing to be done was to go to market Blandings and buy the things. Fortune had helped him at the start by arranging that the honorable Freddie also should be going to market Blandings and the little run about which seated two. He had acquiesced in George's suggestion that he, George, should occupy the other seat, but with a certain lack of enthusiasm it seemed to George. He had not volunteered any reason as to why he was going to market Blandings and the little run about, and on arrival there had betrayed an unmistakable desire to get rid of George at the earliest opportunity. As this had suited George to perfection he, being desirous of getting rid of the honorable Freddie at the earliest opportunity, he had not been inquisitive and they had parted on the outskirts of the town without mutual confidences. George had then proceeded to the grocers and after that to another of the market Blandings' inns, not the emsworth arms where he had bought the white wine. He did not believe in the local white wine for he was a young man with a pallet and mistrusted country sellers, but he assumed that whatever its quality it would cheer Eileen in the small hours. He had then tramped the whole five miles back to the castle with his purchases. It was here that his real troubles began and the quality of his love was tested. The walk to a heavily laden man was bad enough, but it was as nothing compared with the ordeal of smuggling the cargo up to his bedroom. Superhuman though he was, George was alive to the delicacy of the situation. One cannot convey food and drink to one's room in a strange house without, if detected, seeming to cast a slur on the table of the host. It was as one who carries dispatches through an enemy's lines the George took cover, emerged from cover, dodged, ducked, and ran. In the moment when he sank down on his bed the door locked behind him was one of the happiest of his life. The recollection of that ordeal made the one he proposed to embark on now seems slight in comparison. All he had to do was to go to Eileen's room on the other side of the house, knock softly on the door until signs of wakefulness made themselves heard from within, and then dart away into the shadows once he had come and so back to bed. He gave Eileen credit for the intelligence that would enable her on finding a tongue, some bread, a knife, a fork, salt, a corkscrew, and a bottle of white wine on the mat to know what to do with them, and perhaps to guess who's was the loving hand that had laid them there. The second clause, however, was not important, for he proposed to tell her who's was the hand next morning. Other people might hide their light under a bushel, not George Emerson. It only remained now to allow time to pass until the hour should be sufficiently advanced to ensure safety for the expedition. He looked at his watch again. It was nearly two. By this time the house must be asleep. He gathered up the tongue, the bread, the knife, the fork, the salt, the corkscrew, and the bottle of white wine and left the room. All was still. He stole downstairs. On his chair in the gallery that ran round the hall, swathed in an overcoat and wearing rubber-soled shoes, the efficient baxter sat and gazed into the darkness. He had lost the first fine careless rapture as it were, which had helped him to endure these vigils, and a great weariness was on him. He found difficulty in keeping his eyes open, and when they were open the darkness seemed to press on them painfully. Take him for all in all the efficient baxter had had about enough of it. Time stood still. Baxter's thoughts began to wander. He knew that this was fatal and exerted himself to drag them back. He tried to concentrate his mind on some one definite thing. He selected the scarab as a suitable object, but it played him false. He had hardly concentrated on the scarab before his mind was straying off to ancient Egypt, to Mr. Peter's dyspepsia, and on a dozen other branch lines of thought. He blamed the fat man at the inn for this. If the fat man had not thrust his presence in conversation on him, he would have been able to enjoy his sound sleep in the afternoon and would have come fresh to his nocturnal task. He began to muse on the fat man, and by a curious coincidence whom should he meet a few moments later but this same man. It happened in a somewhat singular manner, though it all seemed perfectly logical and consecutive to Baxter. He was climbing up the outer wall of Westminster Abbey in his pajamas and a tall hat when the fat man suddenly thrusting his head out of a window which Baxter had not noticed until that moment said, Hello, Freddie. Baxter was about to explain that his name was not Freddie when he found himself walking down Piccadilly with Ash Marson. Ash said to him, Nobody loves me. Everybody steals my grapefruit and the pathos of it cut the efficient Baxter like a knife. He was on the point of replying when Ash vanished and Baxter discovered that he was not in Piccadilly as he had supposed, but in an aeroplane with Mr. Peter's hovering over the castle. Mr. Peter's had a bomb in his hand, which he was fondling with loving care. He explained to Baxter that he had stolen it from the Earl of M'sworths Museum. I did it with a slice of cold beef and a pickle, he explained, and Baxter found himself realizing that that was the only way. Now watch me drop it, said Mr. Peter's, closing one eye and taking aim at the castle. I have to do this by the doctor's orders. He loosed the bomb and immediately Baxter was lying in bed watching it drop. He was frightened, but the idea of moving did not occur to him. The bomb fell very slowly, dipping and fluttering like a feather. It came closer and closer, then it struck with a roar and a sheet of flame. Baxter woke to a sound of tumult and crashing. For a moment he hovered between dreaming and waking, and then sleep passed from him and he was aware that something noisy and exciting was in progress in the hall below. Coming down to first causes, the only reason why collisions of any kind occur is because two bodies defy nature's law that a given spot on a given plane shall at a given moment of time be occupied by only one body. There was a certain spot near the foot of the Great Staircase, which Ash, coming downstairs from Mr. Peter's room and George Emerson coming up to Eileen's room, had to pass on their respective routes. George reached it at one minute and three seconds after 2 a.m., moving silently but swiftly, and Ash, also maintaining a good rate of speed, arrived there at one minute and four seconds after the hour when he ceased to walk and began to fly, accompanied by George Emerson, now going down. His arms were round George's neck and George was clinging to his waist. In due season, they reached the foot of the stairs and a small table covered with occasional china and photographs and frames which lay adjacent to the foot of the stairs. That, especially the occasional china, was what Baxter had heard. George Emerson thought it was a burglar. Ash did not know what it was but he knew he wanted to shake it off. So he insinuated a hand beneath George's chin and pushed upward. George, by this time, parted forever from the tongue, the bread, the knife, the fork, the salt, the corkscrew and the bottle of white wine and having both hands free for the work of the moment, held Ash with the left and punched him in the ribs with the right. Ash, removing his left arm from George's neck, brought it up as a reinforcement to his right and used both as a means of throttling George. This led George, now permanently underneath, to grasp Ash's ears firmly and twist them, relieving the pressure on his throat and causing Ash to utter the first vocal sound of the evening other than the explosive ugg that both had emitted at the instant of impact. Ash dislodged George's hands from his ears and hit George in the ribs with his elbow. George kicked Ash on the left ankle. Ash rediscovered George's throat and began to squeeze it afresh and a pleasant time was being had by all when the efficient Baxter, whizzing down the stairs, tripped over Ash's legs, shot forward and cannoned into another table, also covered with occasional china and photographs and frames. The hall at Blanding's Castle was more an extra drawing room than a hall, and when not nursing a sick headache in her bedroom, Lady Anne Warblington would dispense afternoon tea there to her guests. Consequently, it was dotted pretty freely with small tables. There were, indeed, no fewer than five more in various spots waiting to be bumped into and smashed. The bumping into and smashing of small tables, however, is a task that calls for plenty of time, a leisured pursuit, and neither George nor Ash, a third party having been added to their little affair, felt a desire to stay on and do the thing properly. Ash was strongly opposed to being discovered and called on to account for his presence there at that hour, and George, conscious of the tongue and its adjuncts now strewn about the hall, had a similar prejudice against the tedious explanations that detection must involve. As though by mutual consent, each relaxed his grip, they stood panting for an instant, then Ash, in the direction where he supposed the Green Bay's door of the servants' quarters to be, George to the staircase that led to his bedroom, they went away from that place. They had hardly done so when Baxter, having disassociated himself from the contents of the table he had upset, began to grope his way toward the electric light switch, the same being situated near the foot of the main staircase. He went on all fours as a safer method of locomotion, though slower than the one he had attempted before. Noises began to make themselves heard on the floors above. Roused by the merry crackle of occasional China, the House Party was bestaring itself to investigate. Voices sounded, muffled and inquiring. Meantime, Baxter crawled steadily on his hands and knees toward the light switch. He was in much the same condition as one white hope of the ring is after he has put his chin in the way of the fist of a rival member of the truck driver's union. He knew that he was still alive, more he could not say. The mists of sleep which still shrouded his brain and the shake-up he had had from his encounter with the table, a corner of which he had rammed with the top of his head, combined to produce a dream-like state. And so the efficient Baxter crawled on, and as he crawled, his hand, advancing cautiously, fell on something, something that was not alive, something clammy and ice cold, the touch of which filled him with a nameless horror. To say that Baxter's heart stood still would be physiologically inexact. The heart does not stand still. Whatever the emotions of its owner, it goes on beating. It would be more accurate to say that Baxter felt like a man taking his first ride in an express elevator who has outstripped his vital organs by several floors and sees no immediate prospect of their ever catching up with him again. There was a great cold void where the more intimate parts of his body should have been. His throat was dry and contracted, the flesh of his back crawled, for he knew what it was he had touched. Painful and absorbing as had been his encounter with the table, Baxter had never lost sight of the fact that close beside him a furious battle between unseen forces was in progress. He had heard the bumping and the thumping and the tense breathing even as he picked occasional China from his person. Such a combat he had felt could hardly fail to result in personal injury to either the party of the first part or the party of the second part or both. He knew now that worse than mere injury had happened and that he knelt in the presence of death. There was no doubt that the man was dead. Insensibility alone could never have produced this icy chill. He raised his head in the darkness and cried aloud to those approaching. He meant to cry, Help! Murder! But fear prevented clear articulation. What he shouted was, Eh! Murder! On which from the neighborhood of the staircase somebody began to fire a revolver. The Earl of Emsworth had been sleeping a sound and peaceful sleep when the embroglio began downstairs. He sat up and listened. Yes, undoubtedly burglars. He switched on his light and jumped out of bed. He took a pistol from a drawer and thus armed went to look into the matter. The dreamy pier was no paltrune. It was quite dark when he arrived on the scene of conflict in the van of a mixed bevy of pajama and dressing-gound relations. He was in the van because meeting these relations in the passage above he had said to them, Let me go first. I have a pistol. And they had let him go first. They were indeed awfully nice about it, not thrusting themselves forward or jostling or anything, but behaving in a modest and self-effacing manner that was pretty to watch. When Lord Emsworth said, Let me go first, young Algernon Wooster who was on the very point of leaping to the fore said, Yes, by jove sound scheme by Gad, and withdrew into the background. And the bishop of Godalming said, By all means, Clarence, undoubtedly, most certainly, precede us. When his sense of touch told him he had reached the foot of the stairs, Lord Emsworth paused. The hall was very dark and the burglars seemed temporarily to have suspended activities. And then one of them, a man with a ruffianly grating voice, spoke. What it was he said Lord Emsworth could not understand. It sounded like, Ha, myrrh! Probably some secret signal to his confederates. Lord Emsworth raised his revolver and emptied it in the direction of the sound. Extremely fortunately for him the efficient Baxter had not changed his all fours attitude. This undoubtedly saved Lord Emsworth the worry of engaging a new secretary. The shots sang above Baxter's head one after the other, sixth in all, and found other billets than his person. They disposed themselves as follows. The first shot broke a window and whistled out into the night. The second shot hit the dinner gong and made a perfectly extraordinary noise like the last trump. The third, fourth, and fifth shots embedded themselves in the wall. The sixth and final shot hit a life-sized picture of his lordship's grandmother in the face and improved it out of all knowledge. One thinks no worse of Lord Emsworth's grandmother because she looked like Eddie Foy and had allowed herself to be painted after the heavy classic manner of some of the portraits of a hundred years ago in the character of Venus, suitably draped of course, rising from the sea, but it was beyond the possibility of denial that her grandson's bullet permanently removed one of Blanding's castle's most prominent eyesores. Having emptied his revolver Lord Emsworth said, who is there? Speak, and rather in a grieve tone, as though he felt he had done his part in breaking the ice and it was now for the intruder to exert himself and bear his share of the social amenities. The efficient Baxter did not reply. Nothing in the world could have induced him to speak at that moment or to make any sound whatsoever that might betray his position to a dangerous maniac who might at any instant reload his pistol and resume the fuselad. Explanations in his opinion could be deferred until somebody had the presence of mind to switch on the lights. He flattened himself on the carpet and hoped for better things. His cheek touched the corpse beside him, but though he winced and shuddered, he made no outcry. After those six shots he was through without cries. A voice from above, the bishop's voice, said, I think you have killed him, Clarence. Another voice, that of Colonel Horace Mantz, said, switch on those dashed lights. Why doesn't somebody dash it? The whole strength of the company began to demand light. When the lights came it was from the other side of the hall. Six revolver shots fired at quarter past two in the morning were roused even sleeping domestics. The servant's quarters were buzzing like a hive. Shrill feminine screams were puncturing the air. Mr. Beach the butler in a suit of pink silk pajamas of which no one would have suspected him was leading a party of men's servants down the stairs. Not so much because he wanted to lead them as because they pushed him. The passage beyond the Green Bay's door became congested and there were cries for Mr. Beach to open it and look through and see what was the matter. But Mr. Beach was smarter than that and wriggled back so that he no longer headed the procession. This done he shouted, open that door there, open that door, look and see what the matter is. Ash opened the door. Since his escape from the hall he had been lurking in the neighborhood of the Green Bay's door and had been engulfed by the swirling throng. Finding himself with elbow room for the first time he pushed through, swung the door open and switched on the lights. They shone on a collection of semi-dressed figures crowding the staircase on a hall littered with china and glass on a dented dinner gong on an edited and improved portrait of the late Countess of Emsworth and on the efficient Baxter in an overcoat and rubber-soled shoes lying beside a cold tongue. At no great distance lay a number of other objects, a knife, a fork, some bread, salt, a corkscrew, and a bottle of white wine. Using the word in the sense of saying something coherent the Earl of Emsworth was the first to speak. He peered down at his incumbent secretary and said, Baxter, my dear fellow, what the devil? The feeling of the company was one of profound disappointment. They were disgusted at the anti-climax. For an instant when the efficient one did not move a hope began to stir. But as soon as it was seen that he was not even injured, gloom reigned. One of two things would have satisfied them either a burglar or a cork. A burglar would have been welcomed, dead or alive. But if Baxter proposed to fill the part adequately it was imperative that he be dead. He had disappointed them deeply by turning out to be the object of their quest. That he should not have been even grazed was too much. There was a cold silence as he slowly raised himself from the floor. As his eyes fell on the tongue he started and remained gazing fixedly at it. Surprise paralyzed him. Lord Emsworth was also looking at the tongue and he leaped to a not unreasonable conclusion. He spoke coldly and haughtily. For he was not only annoyed like the others at the anticlimax but offended. He knew that he was not one of your energetic hosts to exert themselves unceasingly to supply their guests with entertainment. But there was one thing on which as a host he did pride himself. In the material matters of life he did his guests well. He kept an admirable table. My dear Baxter, he said in the tones he usually reserved for the correction of his son Freddie. If your hunger is so great that you are unable to wait for breakfast and have to raid my larder in the middle of the night I wish to goodness you would contrive to make less noise about it. I do not grudge you the food help yourself when you please but do remember that people who have not such keen appetites as yourself like to sleep during the night. A far better plan my dear fellow would be to have sandwiches or buns or whatever you consider most sustaining sent up to your bedroom. Not even the bullets had disordered Baxter's faculties so much as this monstrous accusation. Explanations pushed and jostled one another in his fermenting brain but he could not utter them. On every side he met gravely reproachful eyes. George Emerson was looking at him in pain disgust. Ash Marson's face was the face of one who could never have believed this had he not seen it with his own eyes. The scrutiny of the knife and shoe boy was unendurable. He stammered. Words began to proceed from him tripping and stumbling over each other. Lord Emsworth's frigid disapproval did not relax. Pray do not apologize Baxter. The desire for food is human. It is your boisterous mode of securing and conveying it that I deprecate. Let us all go to bed. But Lord Emsworth to bed repeated his lordship firmly. The company began to stream moodily upstairs. The lights were switched off. The efficient Baxter dragged himself away. From the darkness and the direction of the servant's door a voice spoke. Greedy pig said the voice scornfully. It sounded like the fresh young voice of the knife and shoe boy. But Baxter was too broken to investigate. He continued his retreat without pausing. Stuffing of his self at all hours said the voice. There was a murmur of approval from the unseen throng of domestics. End of Chapter 8 Chapter 9 of Something New This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Something new by PG Woodhouse. Chapter 9 As we grow older and realize more clearly the limitations of human happiness, we come to see that the only real and abiding pleasure in life is to give pleasure to other people. One must assume that the efficient Baxter had not reached the age when this comes home to a man. For the fact that he had given genuine pleasure to some dozens of his fellow men brought him no balm. There was no doubt about the pleasure he had given. Once they had got over their disappointment at finding that he was not a dead burglar, the house party rejoiced wholeheartedly at the break in the monotony of life at Landings Castle. Relations who had not been on speaking terms for years forgot their quarrels and strolled 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 Colonel Horace Mant, because I know better. Have you noticed his eye? Fertive, shifty, nasty gleam in it. Besides, dash it. Did you happen to take a look at the hall last night after he had been there? It was in ruins, my dear sir. Absolute dashed ruins. It was positively littered with broken china and tables that had been bowled over. Don't tell me that was just an accidental collision in the dark. My dear sir, the man must have been thrashing about, absolutely thrashing about, like a dashed salmon on a dashed hook. He must have had a paroxysm of some kind, some kind of a dashed fit. A doctor could give you the name for it. It's a well-known form of insanity. Paranoia, isn't that what they call it? Rush of blood to the head followed by a general running amok. I've heard fellows who have been in India talk of it. Natives get it. Don't know what they're doing and charged through the streets, taking cracks at people with dashed, whacking great knives. Same with this young man, probably in a modified form at present. He ought to be in a home. One of these nights, if this grows on him, he will be massacring emsworth in his bed. My dear, Horus, the Bishop of Godalming's voice, was properly horrors-stricken, but there was a certain unctuous relish in it. Take my word for it. Though, mind you, I don't say they aren't well-suited. Everyone knows that emsworth has been to all practical intents and purposes a dashed lunatic for years. What was it that young fellow Emerson, Freddie's American friend, was saying the other day about some acquaintance of his who was not quite right in the head? Nobody in the house? Is that it, something to that effect at any rate? I felt at the time it was a perfect description of emsworth. My dear Horus, your father-in-law, the head of the family, a dashed lunatic, my dear sir, head of the family or no head of the family. A man as absent-minded as he is has no right to call himself sane. Nobody in the house, I recollect it now, nobody in the house except Gas, and that has not been turned on. That's emsworth. The efficient Baxter, who had just left his presence, was feeling much the same about his noble employer. After a sleepless night, he had begun at an early hour to try and corner Lord Emsworth in order to explain to him the true inwardness of last night's happenings. Eventually, he had tracked him to the museum, where he found him happily engaged in painting a cabinet of bird's eggs. He was seated on a small stool, a large pot of red paint on the floor beside him, dabbing at the cabinet with a dripping brush. He was absorbed and made no attempt whatever to follow his secretaries' remarks. For ten minutes, he was able to see what was going on, for ten minutes, Baxter gave a vivid picture of his vigil and the manner in which it had been interrupted. Just so, just so, my dear fellow, said the Earl when he had finished, I quite understand. All I say is, if you do require additional food in the night, let one of the servants bring it to your room before bedtime. Then there will be no danger of these disturbances. There is no possible objection to your eating a hundred meals a day, my good Baxter, provided you close over them. Some of us like to sleep during the night. But Lord M's worth, I have just explained. It was not. I was not. Never mind, my dear fellow, never mind. Why make such an important thing of it? Many people like a light snack before actually retiring. Doctors, I believe, sometimes recommend it. Tell me, Baxter, how do you think the museum looks now? A little brighter? Better for the dash of color? I think so. Museums are generally such gloomy places. Lord M's worth, may I explain once again? The Earl looked annoyed. My dear Baxter, I have told you that there is nothing to explain. You are getting a little tedious. What a deep, rich red this is and how clean new paint smells. Do you know, Baxter, I have been longing to mess about with paint ever since I was a boy. I recollect my old father beating me with a walking stick. That would be before your time, of course. By the way, if you see Freddie, will you tell him I want to speak to him? He probably is in the smoking room. Send him to me here. It was an overwrought Baxter who delivered the message to the Honorable 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 pressed hard on Baxter now. Fate had played him a sorry trick. It had put him in a position where he had to choose between two courses, each as disagreeable as the other. He must either be faced with a second fiasco like that of last night or else he must abandon his post and cease to mount guard over his threatened treasure. His imagination quailed at the thought of a repetition of last night's horrors. He had been badly shaken by his collision with the 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 man bearing a tongue and the other things. He had given up in despair the attempt to unravel the mystery of the tongue. It completely baffled him. But it was by no means unlikely that if he spent another night in the gallery looking on the hall, he might not again become a target for Lord M's worst irresponsible firearm. Nothing, in fact, was more likely. For in the disturbed state of the public mind the slightest sound after nightfall would be sufficient cause for a fuselage. He had actually overheard young Algernon Worster telling Lord Stockheath he had a jolly good mind to sit on the stairs that night with a shotgun because it was his opinion that there was a jolly sight more in this business than there seemed to be. And what he thought of the Ballet Affair was that there was a gang of some kind at work and that that fellow, what's his name, that fellow Baxter was some sort of an accomplice. With these things in his mind Baxter decided to remain that night in the security of his bedroom. He had lost his nerve. He formed this decision with the utmost reluctance for the thought of leaving the road to the museum clear for marauders was bitter in the extreme. If he could have overheard a conversation between Joan Valentine and Ash Marson it is probable he would have risked Lord M's worth's revolver and the shotgun of the honorable Algernon Worster. Ash, when he met Joan and recounted the events of the night at which Joan, who was a sound sleeper, had not been present, was inclined to blame himself as a failure. True, fate had been against 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 for me. That is my idea of real teamwork. I'm so glad now that we formed our partnership. It would have been too bad if I had got all the advantage of your work and had jumped in and deprived you of the reward. As it is, I shall go down and finish the thing off tonight with a clear conscience. You can't mean that you dream of going down to the museum tonight. Of course I do. But it's madness. On the contrary, tonight is the one night when there ought to be no risk at all. After what happened last night? Because of what happened last night, do you imagine Mr. Baxter will dare to stir from his bed after that? If ever there was a chance of getting this thing finished, it will be tonight. You're quite right. I never looked at it that way. Baxter wouldn't risk a second disaster. I'll certainly make a success of it this time. Joan raised her eyebrows. I don't quite understand you, Mr. Marston. Do you propose to try to get the scare up tonight? Yes, it will be as easy as are you forgetting that by the terms of our agreement to return? You surely don't intend to hold me to that. Certainly I do. But good heavens, consider my position. Do you seriously expect me to lie in bed while you do all the work and then to take a half share in the reward? I do. It's ridiculous. It's no more ridiculous than that I should do the same. Mr. Marston, there's no use in our going over all this again. We've settled it long ago. Joan refused to discuss the matter further, leaving Ash in a condition of anxious misery, comparable only to that which, as night began to draw near, gnawed the vitals of the efficient Baxter. Breakfast at Blanding's Castle was an informal meal. There was food and drink in the long dining hall, for such as were energetic enough to come down and get it. But the majority of the house party breakfasted in their rooms. Lord Emsworth, whom nothing in the world would have induced to begin the day most of whom he disliked, setting them the example. When, therefore, Baxter, yielding to nature after having remained awake until the early morning, fell asleep at nine o'clock, nobody came to rouse him. He did not ring his bell, so he was not disturbed, and he slept on until half past eleven, by which time it, being Sunday morning, and the house party, including one bishop and several of the minor clergy, the place had gone off to church. Baxter shaved and dressed hastily, for he was in a state of nervous apprehension. 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 with a pre-sentiment. Something told him the scarab had been stolen in the night, and he wished now that he had risked all and kept guard. The house was very quiet and away rapidly to the hall. As he passed a window, he perceived Lord Emsworth in an unsabotarian suit of tweeds and bearing a garden fork, which must have pained the bishop, bending earnestly over a flower bed. But he was the only occupant of the grounds, and indoors there was a feeling of emptiness. The hall had that Sunday morning air of wanting to be left to itself and disapproving of the entry of anything human until lunchtime, felt only by a guest in a large house who remains at home when his fellows have gone to church. The portraits on the walls, especially the one of the Countess of Emsworth and the character of Venus rising from the sea, stared at Baxter as he entered with cold reproof. The very chairs seemed distant and unfriendly, but Baxter was in no mood to appreciate their attitude. His conscience slept. His mind was occupied by other things, by the scarab and its probable fate. How disastrously remiss it had been of him not to keep guard last night. Long before he opened the museum door he was feeling the absolute certainty that the worst had happened. It had. The card which announced that here was an Egyptian scarab of the reign of Cheops of the Fourth Dynasty presented by J. Preston Peter's Esquire still lay on the cabinet in its wanted place, but now its neat lettering was false and misleading. The scarab was gone. For all that he had expected this, for all his premonition of disaster it was an appreciable time before the efficient Baxter rallied from the blow. He stood transfixed, gobbling at the empty place. Then his mind resumed its functions. All he perceived was not yet lost. Baxter the watchdog must retire and be succeeded by Baxter the sleuth hound. He had been unable to prevent the theft of the scarab but he might still detect the thief. For the Dr. Watson's of this world as opposed to the Sherlock Holmes's success in the province of detective work must always be to a very large extent the result of luck. Sherlock Holmes can extract a clue from a wisp of straw or a flake of cigar ash but Dr. Watson has to have it taken out and exhibited clearly with a label attached. The average man is a Dr. Watson. We are wont to scoff in a patronizing manner at that humble follower of the great investigator. But as a matter of fact we should have been just as dull ourselves. We should not even have risen to the modest height of a Scotland yard bungler. Baxter was a Dr. Watson. What he wanted was a clue but it is so hard for the novice to tell what is a clue and then he happened to look down and there on the floor was a clue that nobody could have overlooked. Baxter saw it but did not immediately recognize it for what it was. What he saw at first was not a clue but just a mess. He had a tidy soul and a poured messes and this was a particularly messy mess. A considerable portion of the floor was a sea of red paint. The can from which it had flowed was hanging on its side near the wall. He had noticed that the smell of paint had seemed particularly pungent but had attributed this to a new freshet of energy on the part of Lord Emsworth. He had not perceived that paint had been spilled. Pa! said Baxter. Then suddenly beneath the disguise of the mess he saw the clue. A footmark. No less. A crimson footmark on the polished wood. It was clear and distinct as though it had been left there for the purpose of assisting him. It was a feminine footmark, the print of a slim and pointed shoe. This perplexed Baxter. He had looked on the siege of the scarab as an exclusively male affair. But he was not perplexed long. What could be simpler than that Mr. Peters should have enlisted female aid? The female of the species is more deadly than the male. The scarabs, at any rate there the footprint was unmistakably feminine. Inspiration came to him. Aileen Peters had him made. What more likely 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 most sinister character. Mr. Peters was a collector and when a collector makes up his mind to secure a treasure he will end. Baxter was now in a state of great excitement. He was hot on the scent and his brain was working like a buzz saw in an icebox. According to his reasoning if Aileen Peters made had done this thing 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 keen scrutiny. Yes, there was red paint on the carpet. He passed through the Green Bay's door and examined the stairs. On the bottom step there was a faint but conclusive stain of crimson. He was wondering how best to follow up this clue when he perceived Ash coming down the stairs. Ash like Baxter and as the result of a night disturbed by anxious thoughts had also overslept himself. There are moments when the giddy excitement of being right on the trail of an amateur or Watsonian detective to be incautious. If Baxter had been wise he would have achieved his object the getting a glimpse of Joan's shoes by a devious and snaky route. As it was zeal getting the better of prudence he rushed straight on. His early suspicion of Ash had been temporarily obscured. Whatever Ash's claims to be a suspect it had 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 servant's 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 Ash? I should say at a venture, sir, that they would be in a large basket somewhere near the kitchen. Both and Shoe Boy collects them, I believe, at early dawn. Would they have been cleaned yet? If I know the lad, sir, no. Go and bring that basket to me. Bring it to me in this room. The room to which he referred was none other than the private sanctum of Mr. Beach the Butler, the door of which, standing open, showed it to be empty. It was not Baxter's plan, excited as he was, to risk being discovered sifting shoes in the middle of a passage in the servant's quarters. Ash's brain was working rapidly as he made for the shoe cupboard, that little den of darkness and smells, where Billy, the knife and shoe boy, better known in the circle in which he moved as young bonehead, pursued his menial tasks. What exactly was at the back of the efficient Baxter's mind prompting these maneuvers he did not know, but that there was something he was certain? He had not yet seen Joan this morning, and he did not know whether or not she had carried out her resolve of attempting to steal the scarab on the previous night. But this activity and mystery on the part of their enemy must have some sinister significance. He gathered up the shoe basket thoughtfully. He staggered back with it and dumped it down on the floor of Mr. Beach's room. The efficient Baxter stooped eagerly over it. Ash, leaning against the wall, straightened the creases in his clothes and flicked disgustedly at an inky spot which the journey had transferred from the basket to his coat. We have here, sir, he said, a fair selection of our various foot coverings. You did not drop any on your way. Not one, sir. The efficient Baxter uttered a grunt of satisfaction and bent once more to his task. Shoes flew about the room. Baxter knelt on the floor beside the basket and dug like a terrier at a rat-hole. At last he made a find and with an exclamation of triumph rose to his feet. In his hand he held a shoe. Put those back, he said. Ash began to pick up the scattered foot gear. That's the lot, sir, he said, rising. Now, come with me. Leave the basket there. You can carry it back when 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 might not be others besides Lord Emsworth in the garden, and it occurred to him that, especially after his reputation for eccentric conduct had been so firmly established by his misfortunes that night in the hall, it might cause comment should he appear before them carrying a shoe. Ash took the shoe and, doing so, understood what before had puzzled 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 held was a female shoe. His own researches in the museum had made him aware of the presence there of red paint. It was not difficult to build up on these data a pretty accurate estimate of the position of affairs. Come with me, said Baxter. He left the room. Ash followed him. In the garden Lord Emsworth, garden fork in hand, was dealing summarily with a green young weed that had unconsciously shown its head in the middle of a flower bed. He listened to Baxter's statement with more interest than he usually showed in anybody's statements. He resented the loss of the scarab, not so much on account of its intrinsic worth, as because it had been the gift of his friend, Mr. Peters. Indeed, he said, when Baxter had finished, Dear me, it certainly seems it is extremely suggestive. You are certain there was red paint on this shoe? I have it with me. I brought it on purpose to show you. He looked at Ash 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... Just so, just so. My dear Baxter, it may be that I have not examined this shoe with sufficient care, but can you point out to me exactly where this paint is that you speak of? The efficient Baxter stood staring at the shoe with wild-fixed stare. Of any suspicion of paint, red or otherwise, it was absolutely 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 who feels that his brain is tottering. Lord Emsworth looked at it with a mildly puzzled expression. Ash Marson examined it with a sort of affectionate interest, as though he were waiting for it to do a trick of some kind. Baxter was the first to break the silence. There was paint on this shoe, he said vehemently. I tell you there was a splash of red paint across the toe. This man here will 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 broad splash right across the toe. Lord Emsworth interposed. You must have made a mistake, my dear Baxter. There was certainly no trace of paint on this shoe. These momentary optical delusions are, I fancy, not uncommon. Any doctor will tell you. I had an aunt, your lordship, said Ash Taddly, who was remarkably subject. It is absurd. I cannot have been mistaken, said Baxter. I am positively certain the toe of this shoe was red when I found it. It is quite black now, my dear Baxter. Sort of chameleon shoe, murmured Ash. The goaded secretary turned on him. What did you say? Nothing, sir. Baxter's old suspicion of this smooth young man came surging back to him. I strongly suspect you of having had something to do with this. Really, Baxter, said the Earl, that is surely the least probable of solutions. This young man could hardly have cleaned the shoe on his way from the house. A few days ago, when painting in the museum, I inadvertently splashed some paint on my own shoe. I can assure you it does not brush off. It needs a very systematic cleaning before all traces are removed. Exactly, your lordship, said Ash, my theory, if I may. Yes, my theory, your lordship, is that Mr. Baxter was deceived by the light and shade effects on the toe of the shoe. The morning sun streaming in through the window must have shown on the shoe in such a manner as to give it a momentary and fictitious aspect of redness. If Mr. Baxter recollects, he did not look long at the shoe. The picture on the retina of the eye consequently had not time to fade. I, myself, remember thinking at the moment that the shoe appeared to have a certain reddish tint. The mistake? Bah! said Baxter shortly. Lord Emsworth, now thoroughly bored with the whole affair and desiring nothing more than to be left alone with his weeds and his garden fork, put in his word. Baxter, he felt, was curiously irritating these days. He always seemed to be bobbing up. The Earl of Emsworth was conscious of a strong desire to be free from his secretary's company. He was efficient. Yes, invaluable indeed. He did not know what he should do without Baxter, but there was no denying that his company tended after a while to become a trifle tedious. He took a fresh grip on his garden fork and shifted it about in the air as a hint that the interview had lasted long enough. It seems to me, my dear fellow, he said, the only explanation that was square with the facts, a shoe that is really smeared with red paint does not become black of itself in the course of a few minutes. You are very right, your lordship, said Ash approvingly. May I 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 a fraudulent piece of evidence to Ash without a word, and the latter, having included both gentlemen in a kindly smile, left the garden. On returning to the butler's room, Ash's first act was to remove a shoe from the top of the pile in the basket. He was about to leave the room with it when the sound of footsteps in the passage 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 spoiling my mourning, but for a moment Ash was at a loss. It was a crisis that called for swift action, and it was a little hard to know exactly what to do. It had been his intention to carry the paint-splashed shoe back to his own room, there to clean it at his leisure, but it appeared that this strategic line of retreat was blocked. Plainly the possibility, nay the certainty, that Ash had substituted another shoe for the one with the incriminating splash of paint on it had occurred to the efficient Baxter almost directly the former had left the garden. The window was open. Ash looked out. There were bushes below. It was a makeshift policy and one which did not commend itself to him as the ideal method, but it seemed the only thing to be done, for already the footsteps had reached the door. He threw the shoe out of window, and it sank beneath the friendly surface of the long grass round a wisteria bush. Ash turned, relieved, and the next moment the door opened and Baxter walked in, accompanied with obvious reluctance by his bored employer. Baxter was brisk and peremptory. I wished to look at those shoes again, he said coldly. Certainly, sir, said Ash. I can manage without your assistance, said Baxter. Very good, sir. Leaning against the wall, Ash watched him with silent interest as he burrowed among the contents of the basket like a terrier digging for rats. The Earl of Emsworth took no notice of the proceedings. He yawned plaintively and potted about the room. He was one of nature's potterers. The scrutiny of the man whom he had now placed definitely as a malefactor irritated Baxter. Ash was looking at him in an insufferably tolerant manner, as if he were an indulgent father brooding over his infant son while engaged in some childish frolic. 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. Ash took a volume from the butler's slenderly stocked shelf. The shoe expert resumed his investigations in the basket. He went through it twice, but each time without success. After the second search, he stood up and looked wildly about the room. He was as certain as he could be of anything that the missing piece of evidence was somewhere within those four walls. There was very little 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 Ash. I think he is going to church. Baxter, pink with his exertions, fastened a baleful glance upon him. You had better be careful, he said. At this point the Earl of Embsworth, having done all the pottering possible in the restricted area, yawned like an alligator. Now, my dear Baxter, he began quarrelously. Baxter was not listening. He was on the trail. He had caught sight of a small closet in the wall next to the mantelpiece, and it had stimulated him. What is in this closet? That closet, sir? Yes, this closet. He wrapped 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? Probably nothing 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 Embsworth, he said, I have my reasons for thinking that this man is deliberately keeping the contents of this closet from me. I am convinced that the shoe is in there. Have I your leave to break open the door? The Earl looked a little dazed, as if he were unequal to the intellectual pressure of the conversation. Now, my dear Baxter, said the Earl impatiently, please tell me once again why you have brought me in here. I cannot make head or tail of what you have been saying. Apparently, you accuse this young man of keeping his shoes in a closet. Why should you suspect him of keeping his shoes in a closet? And if he wishes to do so, why on earth should he not keep his shoes in a closet? This is a free country. Exactly, your Lordship, said Ash approvingly, you have touched the spot. It all has to do with the theft of your scarab, Lord Embsworth. 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 that scarab. He will be most ducidly annoyed if it's lost. Yes, indeed. Whoever stole it upset the can of red paint and stepped in it. Devilish careless of them. They must have made the dickens of a mess. Why don't people look where they are walking? I suspect this man of shielding the criminal by hiding her shoe in this closet. Oh, it's not his own shoes that this young man keeps in closets. It is a woman's shoe, Lord Embsworth. The ducid is. Then it was a woman who stole the scarab? Is that the way you figure it out? Bless my soul, Baxter. One wonders what women are coming to nowadays. It's all this movement, I suppose. The vote and all that, eh? I recollect having a chat with the Marquis of Petersfield some time ago. He is in the cabinet and he tells me it is perfectly infernal the way these women carry on. He said sometimes it got to such a pitch with them waving banners and presenting petitions and throwing flower and things at a fellow that if he saw his own mother coming toward him with a hand behind her back he would run like a rabbit. Told me so himself. So, said the efficient Baxter, cutting in on the flow of speech, 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 have any 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 rapid blows on the closet door. The wood was splintered. A third blow smashed the flimsy lock. The closet, with any skeletons it might contain, was open for all to view. It contained a corkscrew, a box of matches, a paper-covered copy of a book entitled Mary the Beautiful Mill Hand, a bottle of embrocation, a spool of cotton, two pencil stubs, and other useful and entertaining objects. It contained, in fact, almost everything except a paint-splashed shoe, and Baxter gazed at the collection in dumb disappointment. Are you satisfied now, my dear Baxter? said the earl. Or is there any more furniture that you would like to break? You know, this furniture breaking is becoming a positive craze with you, my dear fellow. You ought to fight against it. The night before last I don't know how many tables broken in the hall, and now this closet. You will ruin me. No purse can stand the constant drain. Baxter did not reply. He was still trying to rally from the blow. A chance remark of Lord Emsworth set him off on the trail once more. Lord Emsworth, having said his say, had dismissed the affair from his mind and begun to potter again. The course of his pottering had brought him to the fireplace, where a little pile of 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 his chimney swept. It seems to need it badly. No trumpet call ever acted more instantaneously on Old Warhorse than this simple remark on the efficient Baxter. He was still convinced that Ash had hidden the shoes somewhere in the room, and now that the closet had proved an alibi, the chimney was the only spot that remained unsearched. He dived forward with a rush, nearly knocking Lord Emsworth off his feet, and thrust an arm up into the unknown. The startled peer, having recovered his balance, met Ash'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 and needed careful examination. He wriggled his hand about clutchingly. From time to time soot fell in gentle showers. My dear Baxter! Baxter was baffled. He withdrew his hand from the chimney and straightened himself. He brushed a bead of perspiration from his face with the back of his hand. Unfortunately, he used the sooty hand, 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 is positively covered with soot. Positively, you must go and wash it. You are quite black. Really, my dear fellow, you present rather an extraordinary appearance. Run off to your room. The drowning blow the efficient Baxter could not stand up. 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, said Ash. 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 and passageway, came from the direction of the hall a sound like the delivery of a ton of coal. A heavy body bumped down the stairs and a voice which all three recognized as that of the honorable Freddie uttered an oath that lost itself in a final crash and a musical splintering sound, which Baxter, for one, had no difficulty in recognizing as the disillusion of occasional China. Even if they had not so able a detective as Baxter with them, Lord Emsworth and Ash had at no loss to guess what had happened. Dr. Watson himself could have deduced it from the evidence. The honorable Freddie had fallen downstairs. With a little ingenuity, this portion of the story of Mr. Peter's scarab could be converted into an excellent tract, driving home the perils, even in this world, of absenting oneself from church on Sunday morning. If the honorable Freddie had gone to church, he would not have been running down the great staircase at the castle at this hour. And if he had not been running down the great staircase at the castle at that hour, he would not have encountered Muriel. Muriel was a Persian cat belonging to Lady Anne Warblington. Lady Anne had breakfasted in bed and lain there late as she rather fancied she had one of her sick headaches coming on. Muriel had left her room in the wake of the breakfast tray, being anxious to be present at the obsequies of a fried soul that had formed Lady Anne's simple morning meal and had followed the maid who bore it until she had reached the hall. At this point, the maid who disliked Muriel stopped and made a noise like an exploding pop bottle, at the same time taking a little run in Muriel's direction and kicking at her with a menacing foot. Muriel, wounded and startled, had turned in her tracks and sprinted back up the staircase at the exact moment when the honorable Freddie, who for some reason was in a great hurry, ran lightly down. There was an instant when Freddie could have saved himself by planting a number ten shoe on Muriel's spine, but even in that crisis he bethaught him that he hardly stood solid enough with the authorities to risk adding to his misdeeds the slaughter of his aunt's favorite cat, and he executed a rapid swerve. The spared 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 like Marius among the ruins of Carthage and endeavored to ascertain the extent of his injuries. He had a dazed suspicion that he was irretrievably fractured in a dozen places. It was in this attitude that the rescue party found him. He gazed up at them with silent pathos. In the name of goodness, Frederick said, Lord Emsworth, peevishly, what do you imagine you are doing? Freddie endeavored to rise, but sank back again with a stifled howl. It was that belly can of Aunt Anne's, he said, that came legging it up the stairs. I think I've broken my leg. You have certainly broken everything else, said his father unsympathetically. Between you and Baxter I wonder if there's a stick of furniture standing in the house. Thanks, old chap, said Freddie gratefully as Ash stepped forward and lent him an arm. I wish he would give me a hand up to my room. And Baxter, my dear fellow, said Lord Emsworth, you might telephone to Dr. Byrd in market landings and ask him to be good enough to drive out. I am sorry, Freddie, he added, that you should have met with this accident. But everything is so disturbing nowadays that I feel I feel most disturbed. Ash and the honorable Freddie began to move across the hall, Freddie hopping, Ash advancing with a sort of polka step. As they reached the stairs there was a sound of wheels outside and the vanguard of the house party returned from church, entered the house. It's all very well to give it out officially that Freddie has fallen down stairs and sprained his ankle, said Colonel Horace Mant, discussing the affair with the Bishop of Godalming later in the afternoon. But it's my firm belief that that fellow Baxter did precisely as I said he would, to dash frightful injuries on young Freddie. When I got into the house there was Freddie being helped up the stairs while Baxter with his face covered with soot was looking after him with a sort of evil grin. What had he smeared his face with soot for? I should like to know if he were perfectly sane. The whole thing is dashed fishy and mysterious and the sooner I can get Mildred safely out of the place the better I shall be pleased. The fellow's as mad as a hatter. Chapter 9 Chapter 10 of Something New This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org Something New by PG Woodhouse Chapter 10 When Lord Emsworth, citing Mr. Peters in the group of returned churchgoers, drew him aside and broke the news that the millionaire had been stolen in the night by some person unknown he thought the millionaire took it exceedingly well. Though the stolen object no longer belonged to him Mr. Peters no doubt still continued to take an affectionate interest in it and might have been excused had he shown annoyance that his gift had been so carelessly guarded. Mr. Peters was, however, thoroughly magnanimous about the matter. He had the notion that the Earl could possibly have prevented this unfortunate occurrence. He quite understood he was not in the least hurt. Nobody could have foreseen such a calamity. These things happened and one had to accept them. He himself had once suffered in much the same way. The gem of his collection having been removed almost beneath his eyes in the smoothest possible fashion. Altogether he relieved Lord Emsworth's mind very much and when he had finished doing so he departed swiftly and rang for ash. When ash arrived he bubbled over with enthusiasm. He was lyrical in his praise. He went so far as to slap ash on the back. It was only when the latter disclaimed all credit for what had occurred that he checked the flow of approbation. It wasn't you who got it. Who was it then? It was Miss Peters made. It's a long story for working in partnership. I tried for the thing and failed and she succeeded. It was with mixed feelings that ash listened while Mr. Peters transferred his adjectives of commendation to Joan. He admired Joan's courage. He was relieved that her venture had ended without disaster and he knew that she deserved whatever anyone could find to say in praise of her enterprise. But at first, though he tried to crush it down he could not help feeling a certain amount that a girl should have succeeded where he, though having the advantage of first chance, had failed. The terms of his partnership with Joan had jarred on him from the beginning. A man may be in sympathy with the modern movement for the emancipation of women and yet feel aggrieved when a mere girl proves herself a more efficient thief than himself. Woman is invading man's sphere more successfully every day. But there are still certain fields in which man may consider that he is rightfully entitled to a monopoly and the perloining of scarabs and the watches of the night is surely one of them. Joan, in Ash's opinion, should have played a meeker and less active part. These unworthy emotions did not last long. Whatever his other shortcomings Ash possessed a just mind. By the time he had found Joan after Mr. Peters had said his say and dispatched him below stairs on that purpose he had purged himself of petty regrets and was prepared to congratulate her wholeheartedly. He was, however, resolved that nothing should induce him to share in the reward. On that point he resolved he would refuse to be shaken. I have just left Mr. Peters he began all as well. His checkbook lies before him on the table and he is trying to make his fountain pen work long enough to write a check. But there is just one thing I want to say. She interrupted him. To his surprise she was eyeing him coldly and with disapproval. And there is just one thing I want to say, she said, and that is if you imagine I shall consent to accept a penny of the reward exactly what I was going to say. Of course I couldn't dream of taking any of it. I don't understand you. You were certainly going to have it all. I told you when we made our agreement that I should only take my share of the work. Now that you have broken that agreement nothing could induce me to take it. I know you meant it kindly, Mr. Marston but I simply can't feel grateful. I told you that ours was a business contract and that I wouldn't have any chivalry and I thought that after you had given me your promise one moment, said Ash, bewildered I can't follow this. What do you mean? What do I mean? Why that you went down to the museum in Scarab though you had promised to stay away and give me my chance but I didn't do anything of the sort. It was Jones' turn to look bewildered but you have got the Scarab Mr. Marston. Why you have got it. No. But it is gone. I know I went down to the museum last night as we had arranged and when I got there there was no Scarab it had disappeared. I was with each other in consternation. Ash was the first to speak. It was gone when you got to the museum? There wasn't a trace of it. I took it for granted that you had been down before me. I was furious. But this is ridiculous, said Ash who can have taken it. There was nobody beside ourselves who knew Mr. Peters was offering the reward. What exactly happened last night? I waited until one o'clock then I slipped down, got into the museum struck a match and looked for the Scarab it wasn't there. I couldn't believe it at first. I struck some more matches. Quite a number but it was no good. The Scarab was gone. So I went back to bed and thought hard thoughts about you. It was silly of me. I ought to have known you would not break your word but there didn't seem any other solution of the things disappearance. Well somebody must have taken it and the question is what are we to do? She laughed. It seems to me that we were a little premature and quarreling about how we are to divide that reward. It looks as though there wasn't going to be any reward. Meantime, said Ash gloomily, I suppose I have got to go back and tell Peters. I expect it will break his heart. End of chapter 10 CHAPTER 11 PART 1 OF SOMETHING NEW This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org Something new by P.G. Woodhouse. CHAPTER 11 PART 1 Blandings Castle dozed in the calm of an English Sunday afternoon. All was peace. Freddie was in bed with orders from the doctor to stay there until further notice. Baxter had washed his face. Lord Emsworth had returned to his garden fork. The rest of the House Party strolled about the grounds or sat in them for the day was one of those late spring days that are warm with a premature suggestion of mid-summer. Aileen Peters was sitting at the open window of her bedroom which commanded an extensive view of the terraces. A pile of letters lay on the table beside her for she had just finished reading her mail. The postman came late to the castle on Sundays and she had not been able to do this until luncheon was over. Aileen was puzzled. She was conscious of a fit of depression for which she could in no way account. She had a feeling that all was not well with the world which was the more remarkable and that she was usually keenly susceptible to weather conditions and reveled in sunshine like a kitten. Yet here was a day nearly as fine as an American day and she found no solace in it. She looked down on the terrace. The figure of George Emerson appeared walking swiftly and at the sight of him something seemed to tell her that she had found the key to her gloom. There are many kinds of walk. George Emerson's was the walk of mental unrest. His hands were clasped behind his back. His eyes stared straight in front of him from beneath lowering brows and between his teeth was an unlighted cigar. No man who is not a professional politician has an unlighted cigar in his mouth unless he wishes to irritate and debaffle a ticket chopper in the subway or because unpleasant meditations have caused him to forget he has it there. Plainly then all was not well with George Emerson. Aileen had suspected as much at luncheon and looking back she realized that it was at luncheon her depression had begun. The discovery startled her a little. She had not been aware or she had refused to admit to herself that George's troubles bulked so large on her horizon. She had always told herself that she liked George, that George was a dear old friend, that George amused and stimulated her but she would have denied she was so wrapped up in George that the sight of him in trouble would be enough to spoil for her the finest day she had seen since she left America. There was something not only startling but shocking in the thought that she was going to marry Freddie, her official loved one might have paced the grounds of the castle chewing an unlighted cigar by the hour without stirring any emotion in her at all. And she was to marry Freddie next month. This was surely a matter that called for thought. She proceeded gazing down the while at the perambulating George to give it thought. Aileen's was not a deep nature. She had never pretended to herself that she loved the honorable Freddie in which the word is used in books. She liked him and she liked the idea of being connected with the peerage. Her father liked the idea and she liked her father and the combination of these likings had caused her to reply yes when last autumn Freddie, swelling himself out like an embarrassed frog and gulping, had uttered that memorable speech beginning I say you know it's like this don't you know and ending what I mean is will you marry me what she had looked forward to being classically happy as the honorable Mrs. Frederick and then George Emerson had reappeared in her life a disturbing element until today she would have resented the suggestion that she was in love with George she liked to be with him partly because he was so easy to talk to and partly because it was exciting to be continually resisting the will power he made no secret of trying to exercise but today there was a difference she had suspected it at luncheon and she realized it now as she looked down at him from behind the curtain and marked his air of gloom she could no longer disguise it from herself she felt maternal, horribly maternal George was in trouble and she wanted to comfort him Freddie too was in trouble but did she want to comfort Freddie no on the contrary she was already regretting her promise so lightly given before luncheon to go and sit with him that afternoon a well marked feeling of annoyance that he should have been so silly as to tumble downstairs and sprain his ankle was her chief sentiment respecting Freddie George Emerson continued to perambulate and Aileen continued to watch him at last she could endure it no longer she gathered up her letters stacked them in a corner of the dressing table and left the room George had reached the end of the terrace and turned when she began to descend the stone steps outside the front door he quickened his pace as he caught sight of her he halted before her and surveyed her morosely I have been looking for you he said and here I am cheer up George whatever is the matter I've been sitting in my room looking at you and you have been simply prowling what has gone wrong everything how do you mean everything exactly what I say I'm done for Aileen took the yellow slip of paper a cable added George I got it this morning mailed on from my rooms in London read it I'm trying to it doesn't seem to make sense George laughed grimly it makes sense all right I don't see how you can say that Meredith Elephant Kangaroo office cipher I was forgetting Elephant means seriously ill and unable to attend to duty Meredith is one of the partners in my firm in New York oh I'm so sorry do you think he is very sick are you very fond of Mr. Meredith Meredith is a good fellow and I like him but if it was simply a matter of his being ill I'm afraid I could manage to bear up under the news unfortunately Kangaroo means return without fail by the next boat you must return by the next boat Aileen looked at him in her eyes a slow growing comprehension of the situation oh she said at length I put it stronger than that said George but the next boat that means on Wednesday Wednesday morning from South Hampton I shall have to leave here tomorrow Aileen's eyes were fixed on the blue hills across the valley but she did not see them there was a mist between she was feeling crushed and ill treated and lonely it was as though George was already gone and she left alone in an alien land but George she said she could find no other words for her protest against the inevitable it's bad luck said Emerson quietly but I shouldn't wonder if it is not the best thing that really could have happened it finishes me cleanly instead of letting me drag on and make both of us miserable if this cable hadn't come I suppose I should have gone on bothering you I should have fancied to the last moment that there was a chance for me but this ends me with one punch even I haven't the nerve to imagine that I can work a miracle in the few hours before the train leaves tomorrow I must just make the best of it if we ever meet again and I don't see why we should you will be married my particular brand of mental suggestion doesn't work at long range I shan't hope to influence you by telepathy he leaned on the balustrade on the center side and spoke in a low level voice this thing he said coming as a shock coming out of the blue sky without warning Meredith is the last man in the world you would expect to crack up he looked as fit as a stray horse the last time I saw him somehow seems to have hammered a certain amount of sense into me odd it never struck me before but I suppose I have been about the most bumpious conceded fool I can imagine that there was a sort of irresistible fascination in me which was bound to make you break off your engagement and upset the whole universe simply to win the wonderful reward of marrying me is more than I can understand I suppose it takes a shock to make a fellow see exactly what he really amounts to I couldn't think any more of you than I do but if I could the way you have put up with my mouthing and swaggering and posing as a sort of Superman would make me do it Aileen could not speak she felt as though her whole world had been turned upside down in the last quarter of an hour this was a new George Emerson a George at whom it was impossible to laugh but an insidiously attractive George her heart beat quickly her mind was not clear but dimly she realized that he had pulled down her chief barrier of defense and that she was more open to attack than she had ever been obstinacy the automatic desire to resist the pressure of a will that attempted to overcome her own had kept her cool and level-headed in the past with masterfulness she had been able to cope humility was another thing altogether soft-heartedness was Aileen's weakness she had never clearly recognized it but it had been partly pity that had induced her to accept Freddie he had seemed so downtrodden to worry for himself during those autumn days when they had first met prudence warned her that strange things might happen if once she allowed herself to pity George Emerson the silence lengthened Aileen could find nothing to say in her present mood there was danger in speech we've known each other so long said Emerson and I have told you so often that I love you we have come to make almost a joke of it as though we were playing some game but that is our way to laugh at things but I am going to say it once again even though it has come to be a sort of catchphrase I love you I am reconciled to the fact that I am done for out of the running and that you are going to marry somebody else but I am not going to stop loving you it isn't a question of whether I should be happier if I forgot you I can't do it it's just an impossibility and that's all there is to it whatever I may be to you you are part of me you always will be part of me I might just as well try to go on living without breathing as living without loving you he stopped and straightened himself that's all I don't want to spoil a perfectly good spring afternoon for you by pulling out the tragic stop I had to say all that but it's the last time the chant occur again there will be no tragedy when I step into the train tomorrow is there any chance that you might come and see me off Aileen nodded you will that will be splendid now I'll go and pack and break it to my host that I must leave him I expect it will be news to him to learn that I am here I doubt if he knows me by sight Aileen stood where he had left her leaning on the balustrade in the fullness of time there came to her the recollection she had promised Freddie that shortly after lunch and she would sit with him the honorable Freddie looked in purple pajamas and propped up with many pillows was lying in bed reading gridly quail investigator Aileen's entrance occurred at a peculiarly poignant moment in the story and gave him a feeling of having been brought violently to earth from a flight in the clouds it is not often an author has the good fortune to grip a reader as the author of gridly quail gripped Freddie one of the results of his absorbed mood was that he greeted Aileen with a stare of an even glassier quality than usual his eyes were by nature a trifle prominent and to Aileen in the over strong condition in which her talk with George Emerson had left her they seemed to bulge at her like a snails a man seldom looks his best in bed and to Aileen seeing him for the first time at this disadvantage the honorable Freddie seemed quite repulsive it was with the feeling of positive panic that she wondered whether he would want her to kiss him Freddie made no such demand he was not one of your demonstrative lovers he contented himself with rolling over in bed and dropping his lower jaw hello Aileen Aileen sat down on the edge of the bed well Freddie her betrothed improved his appearance a little by hitching up his jaw as though feeling that would be too extreme a measure he did not close his mouth altogether but he diminished the abyss the honorable Freddie belonged to the class of persons who moved through life with their mouths always restfully open it seemed to Aileen that on this particular afternoon a strange dumbness had descended on her she had been unable to speak to George and now she could not think of anything to say to Freddie she looked at him and he looked at her and the clock on the mantelpiece went on ticking it was that Bally Catavan's staying light conversation it came legging it up the stairs and I took the most frightful toss I hate cats do you hate cats? I knew a fellow in London who couldn't stand cats Aileen began to wonder whether there was not something permanently wrong with her organs of speech it should have been a simple matter to develop the cat theme but she found herself unable to do so her mind was concentrated to the exclusion of all else that nature of the spectacle provided by her loved one in pajamas Freddie resumed the conversation I was just reading a corking book have you ever read these things? they come out every month and they're corking the fellow who writes them must be a corker it beats me how he thinks of these things they are about a detective a chap called Gridley Quail frightfully exciting an obvious remedy for dumbness struck Aileen shall I read to you Freddie? right, oh, good scheme I've got to the top of this page Aileen took the paper covered book seven guns covered him with deadly precision did you get as far as that? yes, just beyond it's a bit thick, don't you know this chapy quail has been trapped in a lonely house thinking he was going to see a pal in distress and instead of the pal there pop out a whole squad of masked blighters and guns I don't see how he's going to get out of it myself but I'll bet he does he's a corker if anybody could have pitied Aileen more than she pitied herself as she waded through the adventures of Mr. Quail it would have been Ash Marson he had writhed as he wrote the words and she writhed as she read them the honorable Freddie also writhed but with tense excitement what's the matter? don't stop he cried as Aileen's voice ceased I'm getting hoarse, Freddie Freddie hesitated the desire to remain on the trail with gridly struggled with rudimentary politeness how would it be would you mind if I just took a look at the rest of it myself? we could talk afterwards, you know I shan't be long of course do read it if you want to but do you really like this sort of thing, Freddie? me? rather? why don't you? I don't know, it seems a little I don't know Freddie had become absorbed in his story Aileen did not attempt further analysis for attitude toward Mr. Quail she relapsed into silence it was a silence pregnant with thought for the first time in their relations she was trying to visualize to herself exactly what marriage with this young man would mean hitherto it struck her she had really seen so little of Freddie that she had scarcely had a chance of examining him in the crowded world outside he had always seemed a tolerable enough person today somehow he was different everything was different today this, she took it, was a fair sample of what she might expect after marriage marriage meant to come to essentials that two people were very often and for lengthy periods alone together depended on each other for mutual entertainment what exactly would it be like being alone often with Freddie well it would, she assumed be like this it's all right, said Freddie without looking up, he did get out he had a bomb on him and he threatened to drop it and blow the place to pieces unless the Bliders let him go so they cheesed it I knew he had something up his sleeve like this Aileen drew a deep breath it would be like this forever and ever and ever she died she bent forward and stared at him Freddie, she said do you love me there was no reply Freddie, do you love me am I a part of you if you hadn't me would it be like trying to go on living without reading the honorable Freddie raised a flushed face and gazed at her with an absent eye a what, he said do I, oh yes one of the Bliders has just loosed a rattlesnake into Gridley Quail's bedroom through the transom Aileen rose from her seat and left the room softly the honorable Freddie read on unheeding Ash Marson had not fallen far short of the truth in his estimate of the probable effect on Mr. Peters of the information that his precious scarab had once more been removed by Aileen hands and was now farther from his grasp than ever the drawback to success in life is that failure when it does come acquires an exaggerated importance success had made Mr. Peters in certain aspects of his character a spoiled child at the moment when Ash broke the news he would have parted with half his fortune to recover the scarab its recovery had become a point of honor he saw it as the prize of a contest between his will and that of whatever malignant powers there might be ranged against him in the effort to show him that there were limits to what he could achieve he felt as he had felt in the old days when people sneaked up on him in Wall Street and tried to loosen his grip on a railroad or a pet stock he was suffering from that form of paranoia which makes men multi-millionaires nobody would be foolish enough to become a multi-millionaire if it were not for the desire to prove himself irresistible Mr. Peters obtained a small relief doubling the existing reward and Ash went off in search of Joan hoping that this new stimulus acting on their joint brains might develop inspiration have any fresh ideas been vouched safe to you he asked you may look on me as baffled zone shook her head don't give up she urged think again try to realize what this means Mr. Marson between us we have lost ten thousand dollars in a single night I can't afford it it is like losing a legacy I absolutely refuse to give in without an effort and go back to writing Duke and Earl stories for home gossip the prospect of tackling gridley quail again why I was forgetting that you were a writer of detective stories you ought to be able to solve this mystery in a moment ask yourself what would gridley quail have done I can answer that gridley quail would have waited helplessly for some coincidence what happened to help him out had he no methods he was full of methods but they never let him anywhere without the coincidence however we might try to figure it out what time did you get to the museum one o'clock and you found the scarab gone what does that suggest to you nothing what does it suggest to you absolutely nothing let us try again whoever took the scarab must have had special information that Peters was offering the reward then why hasn't he been to Mr. Peters and claimed it true that would seem to be a flaw in the reasoning once again whoever took it must have been in urgent and immediate need of money and how are we to find out who was in urgent and immediate need of money exactly how indeed there was a pause I should think your Mr. Quail must have been a great comfort to his clients wasn't he said Joan inductive reasoning I admit seems to have fallen down to a certain extent said Ash we must wait for the coincidence I have a feeling that it will come he paused I am very fortunate in the way of coincidences are you Ash looked about him and was relieved to find that they appeared to be out of your shot of their species it was not easy to achieve this position at the castle if you happen to be there as a domestic servant the space provided for the ladies and gentlemen attached to the guests was limited and it was rarely that you could enjoy a stroll without bumping into a maid a valet or a footman but now they appeared to be alone the drive leading to the back regions of the castle was empty as far as the eye could reach there were no signs of servants upper or lower nevertheless Ash lowered his voice was it not a strange coincidence he said that you should have come into my life at all not very said Joan prosaically it was quite likely that we should meet sooner or later as we lived on different floors of the same house it was a coincidence that you should have taken that room why? Ash felt damped logically no doubt she was right but surely she might have helped him out a little in this difficult situation surely her woman's intuition should have told her that a man who has been speaking a cheerful voice does not lower it to a husky whisper without some reason the hopelessness of his task began to weigh on him ever since that evening at market landing station when he realized that he loved her he had been trying to find an opportunity to tell her so and every time they had met the talk had seemed to be drawn irresistibly into practical and unsentimental channels and now when he was doing his best to reason it out that there were twin souls who had been brought together by a destiny it would be foolish to struggle against when he was trying to convey the impression that fate had designed them for each other she said why? it was hard he was about to go deeper into the matter when from the direction of the castle he perceived the honorable freddy's valet Mr. Judson approaching that it was this repellent young man's object to break in on them and rob him of his one small chance of inducing Joan to appreciate as he did the mysterious workings of providence as they affected herself and him was obvious there was no mistaking the valet's desire for conversation he had the air of one brimming over with speech his wanted indolence was cast aside and as he drew nearer he positively ran he was talking before he reached them Mr. Marson it's true what I said that night it's a fact Ash regarded the intruder with a malevolent eye never fond of Mr. Judson he looked on him now with positive loathing it had not been easy for him to work himself up to the point where he could discuss with Joan the mysterious ways of providence for there was that about her which made it hard to achieve sentiment that indefinable something in Joan Valentine the internal raids on other people's museums also rendered her a somewhat difficult person to talk to about twin souls and destiny the qualities that Ash loved in her her strength her capability her valiant self-sufficiness were the very qualities which seemed to check him when he tried to tell her that he loved them Mr. Judson was still babbling it's true there ain't a doubt of it now it's been and happened just as I said that night what did you say which night inquired Ash that night at dinner the first night you two came here don't you remember me talking about Freddie and the girl he used to write letters to in London the girl I said was so like you, Ms. Simpson what was her name again Joan Valentine that was it the girl at the theater that Freddie used to send me with letters to pretty nearly every evening well she's been and done it that night she was jolly likely to go and do she's sticking young Freddie up for his letters just as he ought to have known she would do if he hadn't been a young fathead they're all alike these girls every one of them Mr. Judson paused subjected the surrounding scenery to a cautious scrutiny and resumed I took a suit of Freddie's clothes away to brush just now and happening Mr. Judson paused and gave a little cough a glance at the contents of his pockets I come across a letter I took a sort of look at it before setting it aside and it was from a fellow named Jones and it said that this girl Valentine was sticking on to young Freddie's letters what he'd written her and would see him bloat if she parted with them under another thousand and as I made it out Freddie had already given her five hundred where he got it is more than I can understand but that's what the letter said this fellow Jones said he had passed it to her with his own hands but she wasn't satisfied and if she didn't get the other thousand she was going to bring an action for breach and now Freddie has given me a note to take to this Jones who is stopping in market landings Jones had listened to this remarkable speech with a stunned amazement at this point she made her first comment but that can't be true saw the letter with my own eyes Miss Simpson but she looked at Ash helplessly their eyes met, hers wide with perplexity, his bright with the light of comprehension it shows, said Ash slowly, that he was in immediate and urgent need of money you bet it does said Mr. Judson with relish it looks to me as though young Freddie had about reached the end of his tether this time my word there won't half be a kick up if she does sue him for breach I'm off to tell Mr. Beach and the rest they'll jump out of their skins his face fell oh lord I was forgetting this note he told me to take it at once I'll take it for you said Ash I'm not doing anything Mr. Judson's gratitude was effusive you're a good fellow, Marson he said I'll do as much for you another time I couldn't hardly bear not to tell a bit of news like this right away I should burst or something and Mr. Judson was shining face hurried off to the housekeeper's room I simply can't understand it said Joan at length my head is going round can't understand it why it's perfectly clear this is the coincidence for which in my capacity of gridly quail I was waiting I can now resume inductive reasoning weighing the evidence what do we find that young sweep Freddie is the man he has the scarab the muddle I'm not holding his letters for Joan's purposes you are let's get this Joan's element in the affair straightened out what do you know of him he was an enormously fat man who came to see me one night and said he had been sent to get back some letters I told him I had destroyed them ages ago and he went away well that part of it is clear then he is working a simple but ingenious game on Freddie it wouldn't succeed with everybody I suppose but from what I have seen and heard of him Freddie isn't strong on intellect he seems to have accepted the story without a murmur what does he do he has to raise a thousand pounds immediately and the raising of the first five hundred has exhausted his credit he gets the idea of stealing the scarab but why why should he have thought of the scarab at all that is what I can't understand he couldn't have meant to give it to Mr. Peters he couldn't have known that Mr. Peters was offering a reward he couldn't have known that Lord Ennsworth had not got the scarab quite properly he couldn't have known he couldn't have known anything Ash's enthusiasm was a trifle damped there's something in that but I have it Jones must have known about the scarab and told him but how could he have known yes there's something in that too how could Jones have known he couldn't he had gone by the time Aileen came that night I don't quite understand which night it was the night of the day I first met you I was wondering for a moment whether he could by any chance have overheard Aileen telling me about the scarab and the reward Mr. Peters was offering for it overheard that word is like a bugle blast to me nine out of ten of gridley quail's triumphs were due to his having overheard something I think we are now on the right track I don't how could he have overheard us the door was closed and he was in the street by that time how do you know he was in the street did you see him out no but he went he might have waited on the stairs you remember how dark they are at number seven and listened why Ash reflected why why what a beast of a word that is the detective's bugbear I thought I had it until you said great Scott I'll tell you why I see it all I have him with the goods his object in coming to see you about the letters was because freddy wanted them back owing to his approaching marriage with Miss Peters wasn't it yes you tell him you have destroyed the letters he goes off am I right yes before he is out of the house put yourself in the front door put yourself in jones place what does he think he is suspicious he thinks there is some game on he skips upstairs again waits until Miss Peters is going into your room then stands outside and listens how about that I do believe you are right he might quite easily have done that he did do exactly that I know it as though I had been there in fact it is highly probable I was there when all this happened on the night we first met I remember coming downstairs that night I was going out to a vaudeville show and hearing voices in your room I remember it distinctly in all probability I nearly ran into jones it does all seem to fit in doesn't it it is a clear case there isn't a flaw in it the only question is can I on the evidence go to young freddy and choke the scare out of him well I think I had better take this note to jones as I promised Judson and see whether I can't work something through him yes that's the best plan I'll be starting at once perhaps the greatest hardship in being an invalid is the fact that people come and see you and keep your spirits up the honorable freddy threepwood suffered extremely from this his was not a gregarious nature and if fatigued his limited brain powers to have to find conversation with his numerous visitors all he wanted was to be left alone to read the adventures of gridly quail and when tired of doing that to lie on his back and look at the ceiling and think of nothing it is your dynamic person your energetic world's worker who chafes at being laid up with a sprained ankle the honorable freddy enjoyed it from boyhood up he had loved lying in bed and now that fate had allowed him to do this without incurring rebuke to having his reveries broken up by officious relations he spent his rare intervals of solitude in trying to decide in his mind which of his cousins uncles and aunts was all things considered the greatest nuisance sometimes he would give the palm to colonel Horace Mant who struck the soldierly note I recollect in a hill campaign in the winter of the year 93 giving my ankle the deuce of a twist anon the more spiritual attitude of the bishop of Gedalming seemed to annoy him more keenly sometimes he would had the list with the name of his cousin Percy Lord Stockheath who refused to talk of anything except his late breach of promise case and the effect the verdict had had on his old governor freddy was in no mood just now to be sympathetic with others on their breach of promise cases as he lay in bed reading on Monday morning the only flaw in his enjoyment of this unaccustomed solitude was the thought that presently the door was bound to open and some kind inquirer insinuated himself into the room his apprehensions proved well founded scarcely had he got well into the details of an ingenious plot on the part of a secret society to eliminate gridly quail by bribing his cook a bad lot to sprinkle chopped up horse hair in his chicken fricassee when the doorknob turned and his horse marson came in End of Chapter 11, Part 1