“Here, you!” said the Efficient Baxter excitedly.
“Sir?”
“The shoes!”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I wish to see the servants’ shoes. Where are they?”
“I expect they have them on, sir.”
“Yesterday’s shoes, man–yesterday’s shoes. Where are they?”
“Where are the shoes of yesteryear?” murmured Ashe. “I should say at a venture, sir, that they would be in a large basket somewhere near the kitchen. Our genial knife-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 servants’ quarters.
Ashe’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 lathered 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. Ashe, 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.
Ashe began to pick up the scattered footgear.
“That’s the lot, sir,” he said, rising.
“Now come with me. Leave the basket there. You can carry it 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.
Ashe 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. Ashe followed him.
In the garden Lord Emsworth, garden fork in hand, was dealing summarily with a green young weed that had incautiously 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.