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Page 102
Baxter did not reply. He was still trying to rally from the blow.
A chance remark of Lord Emsworth's 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 war-horse
than this simple remark on the Efficient Baxter. He was still
convinced that Ashe had hidden the shoe 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 Ashe'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! 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.
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