“Your face, my dear Baxter! Your face! It 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.”
Against this crowning 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, sir,” said Ashe.
His voice roused the sufferer to one last flicker of spirit.
“You will hear more of this,” he said. “You will—”
At this moment, slightly muffled by the intervening door and passageway, there 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 dissolution of occasional china.
Even if they had not so able a detective as Baxter with them, Lord Emsworth and Ashe would have been at no loss to guess what had happened. Doctor 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. Peters’ scarab could be converted into an excellent tract, driving home the perils, even in this world, of absenting one’s self 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 Ann Warblington. Lady Ann 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 sole that had formed Lady Ann’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 bethought 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 bally cat of Aunt Ann’s,” he said. “It 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 there’s a stick of furniture standing in the house.”
“Thanks, old chap,” said Freddie gratefully as Ashe stepped forward and lent him an arm. “I think my bally ankle must have got twisted. I wish you would give me a hand up to my room.”
“And, Baxter, my dear fellow,” said Lord Emsworth, “you might telephone to Doctor Bird, in Market Blandings, 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—but everything is so—so disturbing nowadays that I feel—I feel most disturbed.”
Ashe and the Honorable Freddie began to move across the hall—Freddie hopping, Ashe 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 downstairs 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—ran amuck and inflicted dashed 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 X
When Lord Emsworth, sighting Mr. Peters in the group of returned churchgoers, drew him aside and broke the news that the valuable scarab, so kindly presented by him to the castle museum, 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 deprecated 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 Ashe. When Ashe arrived he bubbled over with enthusiasm. He was lyrical in his praise. He went so far as to slap Ashe 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’ maid. It’s a long story; but we were working in partnership. I tried for the thing and failed, and she succeeded.”
It was with mixed feelings that Ashe 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 of chagrin 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 woman 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 purloining of scarabs in the watches of the night is surely one of them. Joan, in Ashe’s opinion, should have played a meeker and less active part.
These unworthy emotions did not last long. Whatever his other shortcomings, Ashe possessed a just mind. By the time he had found Joan, after Mr. Peters had said his say, and dispatched him below stairs for that purpose, he had purged himself of petty regrets and was prepared to congratulate her who
le-heartedly. 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 is well. His check book 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 are certainly going to have it all. I told you when we made our agreement that I should only take my share if you let me do 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. Marson, 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 Ashe, bewildered. “I can’t follow this. What do you mean?”
“What do I mean? Why, that you went down to the museum last night before me and took the scarab, though you had promised to stay away and give me my chance.”
“But I didn’t do anything of the sort.”
It was Joan’s turn to look bewildered.
“But you have got the scarab, Mr. Marson?”
“Why, you have got it!”
“No!”
“But—but it has 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.”
They looked at each other in consternation. Ashe 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 Ashe. “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 thing’s 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 in quarreling about how we are to divide that reward. It looks as though there wasn’t going to be any reward.”
“Meantime,” said Ashe gloomily, “I suppose I have got to go back and tell Peters. I expect it will break his heart.”
CHAPTER XI
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 midsummer.
Aline 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.
Aline 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 in 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; as she looked 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 holds an unlighted cigar in his mouth unless he wishes to irritate and baffle 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.
Aline 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; for she was honest enough with herself to recognize that 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.
Aline’s was not a deep nature. She had never pretended to herself that she loved the Honorable Freddie in the sense 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 placidly happy as the Honorable Mrs. Frederick Threepwood. And then George Emerson had reappeared in her life, a disturbing element.
Until to-day 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 to-day 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 Aline 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. Read this.”
Aline 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?” Aline 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 Southampton. I shall have to leave here to-morrow.”
Aline’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 up to the day of your wedding. I should have fancied, to the last moment, that there was a chance for me; but this ends me with one punch.
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