Mr. Peters was recovering slowly. Baxter talked on, to give him time. He spoke of Mut and Bubastis, of Ammon and the Book of the Dead. He directed the other’s attention to the Roman coins.
He was touching on some aspects of the Princess Gilukhipa of Mitanni, in whom his hearer could scarcely fail to be interested, when the door opened and Beach, the butler, came in, accompanied by Ashe. In the bustle of the interruption Mr. Peters escaped, glad to be elsewhere, and questioning for the first time in his life the dictum that if you want a thing well done you must do it yourself.
“I was not aware, sir,” said Beach, the butler, “that you were in occupation of the museum. I would not have intruded; but this young man expressed a desire to examine the exhibits, and I took the liberty of conducting him.”
“Come in, Beach–come in,” said Baxter.
The light fell on Ashe’s face, and he recognized him as the cheerful young man who had inquired the way to Mr. Peters’ room before dinner and who, he had by this time discovered, was not the Honorable Freddie’s friend, George Emerson–or, indeed, any other of the guests of the house. He felt suspicious.
“Oh, Beach!”
“Sir?”
“Just a moment.”
He drew the butler into the hall, out of earshot.
“Beach, who is that man?”
“Mr. Peters’ valet, sir.”
“Mr. Peters’ valet!”
“Yes, sir.”
“Has he been in service long?” asked Baxter, remembering that a mere menial had addressed him as “old man.”
Beach lowered his voice. He and the Efficient Baxter were old allies, and it seemed right to Beach to confide in him.
“He has only just joined Mr. Peters, sir; and he has never been in service before. He told me so himself, and I was unable to elicit from him any information as to his antecedents. His manner struck me, sir, as peculiar. It crossed my mind to wonder whether Mr. Peters happened to be aware of this. I should dislike to do any young man an injury; but it might be anyone coming to a gentleman without a character, like this young man. Mr. Peters might have been deceived, sir.”
The Efficient Baxter’s manner became distraught. His mind was working rapidly.
“Should he be informed, sir?”
“Eh! Who?”
“Mr. Peters, sir–in case he should have been deceived?”
“No, no; Mr. Peters knows his own business.”
“Far from me be it to appear officious, sir; but–”
“Mr. Peters probably knows all about him. Tell me, Beach, who was it suggested this visit to the museum? Did you?”
“It was at the young man’s express desire that I conducted him, sir.”
The Efficient Baxter returned to the museum without a word. Ashe, standing in the middle of the room, was impressing the topography of the place on his memory. He was unaware of the piercing stare of suspicion that was being directed at him from behind.
He did not see Baxter. He was not even thinking of Baxter; but Baxter was on the alert. Baxter was on the warpath. Baxter knew!
CHAPTER VI
AMONG the compensations of advancing age is a wholesome pessimism, which, though it takes the fine edge off of whatever triumphs may come to us, has the admirable effect of preventing Fate from working off on us any of those gold bricks, coins with strings attached, and unhatched chickens, at which ardent youth snatches with such enthusiasm, to its subsequent disappointment. As we emerge from the twenties we grow into a habit of mind that looks askance at Fate bearing gifts. We miss, perhaps, the occasional prize, but we also avoid leaping light-heartedly into traps.
Ashe Marson had yet to reach the age of tranquil mistrust; and when Fate seemed to be treating him kindly he was still young enough to accept such kindnesses on their face value and rejoice at them.
As he sat on his bed at the end of his first night in Castle Blandings, he was conscious to a remarkable degree that Fortune was treating him well. He had survived–not merely without discredit, but with positive triumph–the initiatory plunge into the etiquette maelstrom of life below stairs. So far from doing the wrong thing and drawing down on himself the just scorn of the steward’s room, he had been the life and soul of the party. Even if to-morrow, in an absent-minded fit, he should anticipate the groom of the chambers in the march to the table, he would be forgiven; for the humorist has his privileges.