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Page 105
"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.
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