“I don’t believe a word of it.”
With that meekness which makes the good man wronged so impressive a spectacle, Ashe produced and exhibited his novel.
“Here is the book I am about to read to him. I think, sir, if you will excuse me, I had better be going to his room. Good night, sir.”
He proceeded to mount the stairs. He was sorry for Mr. Peters, so shortly about to be roused from a refreshing slumber; but these were life’s tragedies and must be borne bravely.
The Efficient Baxter dogged him the whole way, sprinting silently in his wake and dodging into the shadows whenever the light of an occasional electric bulb made it inadvisable to keep to the open. Then abruptly he gave up the pursuit. For the first time his comparative impotence in this silent conflict on which he had embarked was made manifest to him, and he perceived that on mere suspicion, however strong, he could do nothing. To accuse Mr. Peters of theft or to accuse him of being accessory to a theft was out of the question.
Yet his whole being revolted at the thought of allowing the sanctity of the museum to be violated. Officially its contents belonged to Lord Emsworth, but ever since his connection with the castle he had been put in charge of them, and he had come to look on them as his own property. If he was only a collector by proxy he had, nevertheless, the collector’s devotion to his curios, beside which the lioness’ attachment to her cubs is tepid; and he was prepared to do anything to retain in his possession a scarab toward which he already entertained the feelings of a life proprietor.
No–not quite anything! He stopped short at the idea of causing unpleasantness between the father of the Honorable Freddie and the father of the Honorable Freddie’s fiancee. His secretarial position at the castle was a valuable one and he was loath to jeopardize it.
There was only one way in which this delicate affair could be brought to a satisfactory conclusion. It was obvious from what he had seen that night that Mr. Peters’ connection with the attempt on the scarab was to be merely sympathetic, and that the actual theft was to be accomplished by Ashe. His only course, therefore, was to catch Ashe actually in the museum. Then Mr. Peters need not appear in the matter at all. Mr. Peters’ position in those circumstances would be simply that of a man who had happened to employ, through no fault of his own, a valet who happened to be a thief.
He had made a mistake, he perceived, in locking the door of the museum. In the future he must leave it open, as a trap is open; and he must stay up nights and keep watch. With these reflections, the Efficient Baxter returned to his room.
Meantime Ashe had entered Mr. Peters’ bedroom and switched on the light. Mr. Peters, who had just succeeded in dropping off to sleep, sat up with a start.
“I’ve come to read to you,” said Ashe.
Mr. Peters emitted a stifled howl, in which wrath and self-pity were nicely blended.
“You fool, don’t you know I have just managed to get to sleep?”
“And now you’re awake again,” said Ashe soothingly. “Such is life! A little rest, a little folding of the hands in sleep, and then bing!–off we go again. I hope you will like this novel. I dipped into it and it seems good.”
“What do you mean by coming in here at this time of night? Are you crazy?”
“It was your suggestion; and, by the way, I must thank you for it. I apologize for calling it thin. It worked like a charm. I don’t think he believed it–in fact, I know he didn’t; but it held him. I couldn’t have thought up anything half so good in an emergency.”
Mr. Peters’ wrath changed to excitement.
“Did you get it? Have you been after my–my Cheops?”
“I have been after your Cheops, but I didn’t get it. Bad men were abroad. That fellow with the spectacles, who was in the museum when I met you there this evening, swooped down from nowhere, and I had to tell him that you had rung for me to read to you. Fortunately I had this novel on me. I think he followed me upstairs to see whether I really did come to your room.”