|
Main
- books.jibble.org
My Books
- IRC Hacks
Misc. Articles
- Meaning of Jibble
- M4 Su Doku
- Computer Scrapbooking
- Setting up Java
- Bootable Java
- Cookies in Java
- Dynamic Graphs
- Social Shakespeare
External Links
- Paul Mutton
- Jibble Photo Gallery
- Jibble Forums
- Google Landmarks
- Jibble Shop
- Free Books
- Intershot Ltd
|
books.jibble.org
Previous Page
| Next Page
Page 95
* * *
Breakfast at Blandings Castle was an informal meal. There was
food and drink in the long dining-hall for such as were energetic
enough to come down and get it; but the majority of the house
party breakfasted in their rooms, Lord Emsworth, whom nothing in
the world would have induced to begin the day in the company of a
crowd of his relations, most of whom he disliked, setting them
the example.
When, therefore, Baxter, yielding to Nature after having remained
awake until the early morning, fell asleep at nine o'clock,
nobody came to rouse him. He did not ring his bell, so he was not
disturbed; and he slept on until half past eleven, by which time,
it being Sunday morning and the house party including one bishop
and several of the minor clergy, most of the occupants of the
place had gone off to church.
Baxter shaved and dressed hastily, for he was in state of nervous
apprehension. He blamed himself for having lain in bed so long.
When every minute he was away might mean the loss of the scarab,
he had passed several hours in dreamy sloth. He had wakened with
a presentiment. Something told him the scarab had been stolen in
the night, and he wished now that he had risked all and kept
guard.
The house was very quiet as he made his way rapidly to the hall.
As he passed a window he perceived Lord Emsworth, in an
un-Sabbatarian suit of tweeds and bearing a garden fork--which
must have pained the bishop--bending earnestly over a flower bed;
but he was the only occupant of the grounds, and indoors there
was a feeling of emptiness. The hall had that Sunday-morning air
of wanting to be left to itself, and disapproving of the entry of
anything human until lunch time, which can be felt only by a
guest in a large house who remains at home when his fellows have
gone to church.
The portraits on the walls, especially the one of the Countess of
Emsworth in the character of Venus rising from the sea, stared at
Baxter as he entered, with cold reproof. The very chairs seemed
distant and unfriendly; but Baxter was in no mood to appreciate
their attitude. His conscience slept. His mind was occupied, to
the exclusion of all other things, by the scarab and its probable
fate. How disastrously remiss it had been of him not to keep
guard last night! Long before he opened the museum door he was
feeling the absolute certainty that the worst had happened.
It had. The card which announced that here was an Egyptian scarab
of the reign of Cheops of the Fourth Dynasty, presented by J.
Preston Peters, Esquire, still lay on the cabinet in its wonted
place; but now its neat lettering was false and misleading. The
scarab was gone.
* * *
For all that he had expected this, for all his premonition of
disaster, it was an appreciable time before the Efficient Baxter
rallied from the blow. He stood transfixed, goggling at the empty
place.
Then his mind resumed its functions. All, he perceived, was not
yet lost. Baxter the watchdog must retire, to be succeeded by
Baxter the sleuthhound. He had been unable to prevent the theft
of the scarab, but he might still detect the thief.
For the Doctor Watsons of this world, as opposed to the Sherlock
Holmeses, success in the province of detective work must always
be, to a very large extent, the result of luck. Sherlock Holmes
can extract a clew from a wisp of straw or a flake of cigar ash;
but Doctor Watson has to have it taken out for him and dusted,
and exhibited clearly, with a label attached.
The average man is a Doctor Watson. We are wont to scoff in a
patronizing manner at that humble follower of the great
investigator; but as a matter of fact we should have been just as
dull ourselves. We should not even have risen to the modest
height of a Scotland Yard bungler.
Baxter was a Doctor Watson. What he wanted was a clew; but it is
so hard for the novice to tell what is a clew and what is not.
And then he happened to look down--and there on the floor was a
clew that nobody could have overlooked.
Previous Page
| Next Page
|
|