The window was open. Ashe looked out. There were bushes below. It was a makeshift policy, and one which did not commend itself to him as the ideal method, but it seemed the only thing to be done, for already the footsteps had reached the door. He threw the shoe out of window, and it sank beneath the friendly surface of the long grass round a wisteria bush.
Ashe turned, relieved, and the next moment the door opened and Baxter walked in, accompanied—with obvious reluctance—by his bored employer.
Baxter was brisk and peremptory.
“I wish to look at those shoes again,” he said coldly.
“Certainly, sir,” said Ashe.
“I can manage without your assistance,” said Baxter.
“Very good, sir.”
Leaning against the wall, Ashe watched him with silent interest, as he burrowed among the contents of the basket, like a terrier digging for rats. The Earl of Emsworth took no notice of the proceedings. He yawned plaintively, and pottered about the room. He was one of Nature’s potterers.
The scrutiny of the man whom he had now placed definitely as a malefactor irritated Baxter. Ashe was looking at him in an insufferably tolerant manner, as if he were an indulgent father brooding over his infant son while engaged in some childish frolic. He lodged a protest.
“Don’t stand there staring at me!”
“I was interested in what you were doing, sir.”
“Never mind! Don’t stare at me in that idiotic way.”
“May I read a book, sir?”
“Yes, read if you like.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Ashe took a volume from the butler’s slenderly stocked shelf. The shoe-expert resumed his investigations in the basket. He went through it twice, but each time without success. After the second search he stood up and looked wildly about the room. He was as certain as he could be of anything that the missing piece of evidence was somewhere within those four walls. There was very little cover in the room, even for so small a fugitive as a shoe. He raised the tablecloth and peered beneath the table.
“Are you looking for Mr. Beach, sir?” said Ashe. “I think he has gone to church.”
Baxter, pink with his exertions, fastened a baleful glance upon him.
“You had better be careful,” he said.
At this point the Earl of Emsworth, having done all the pottering possible in the restricted area, yawned like an alligator.
“Now, my dear Baxter—” he began querulously.
Baxter was not listening. He was on the trail. He had caught sight of a small closet in the wall, next to the mantelpiece, and it had stimulated him.
“What is in this closet?”
“That closet, sir?”
“Yes, this closet.” He rapped the door irritably.
“I could not say, sir. Mr. Beach, to whom the closet belongs, possibly keeps a few odd trifles there. A ball of string, perhaps. Maybe an old pipe or something of that kind. Probably nothing of value or interest.”
“Open it.”
“It appears to be locked, sir—”
“Unlock it.”
“But where is the key?”
Baxter thought for a moment.
“Lord Emsworth,” he said, “I have my reasons for thinking that this man is deliberately keeping the contents of this closet from me. I am convinced that the shoe is in there. Have I your leave to break open the door?”
The earl looked a little dazed, as if he were unequal to the intellectual pressure of the conversation.
“Now, my dear Baxter,” said the earl impatiently, “please tell me once again why you have brought me in here. I cannot make head or tail of what you have been saying. Apparently you accuse this young man of keeping his shoes in a closet. Why should you suspect him of keeping his shoes in a closet? And if he wishes to do so, why on earth should not he keep his shoes in a closet? This is a free country.”
“Exactly, your lordship,” said Ashe approvingly. “You have touched the spot.”
“It all has to do with the theft of your scarab, Lord Emsworth. Somebody got into the museum and stole the scarab.”
“Ah, yes; ah, yes—so they did. I remember now. You told me. Bad business that, my dear Baxter. Mr. Peters gave me that scarab. He will be most deucedly annoyed if it’s lost. Yes, indeed.”
“Whoever stole it upset the can of red paint and stepped in it.”
“Devilish careless of them. It must have made the dickens of a mess. Why don’t people look where they are walking?”
“I suspect this man of shielding the criminal by hiding her shoe in this closet.”
“Oh, it’s not his own shoes that this young man keeps in closets?”
“It is a woman’s shoe, Lord Emsworth.”
“The deuce it is! Then it was a woman who stole the scarab? Is that the way you figure it out? Bless my soul, Baxter, one wonders what women are coming to nowadays. It’s all this movement, I suppose. The Vote, and all that—eh? I recollect having a chat with the Marquis of Petersfield some time ago. He is in the Cabinet, and he tells me it is perfectly infernal the way these women carry on. He said sometimes it got to such a pitch, with them waving banners and presenting petitions, and throwing flour and things at a fellow, that if he saw his own mother coming toward him, with a hand behind her back, he would run like a rabbit. Told me so himself.”
“So,” said the Efficient Baxter, cutting in on the flow of speech, “what I wish to do is to break open this closet.”
“Eh? Why?”
“To get the shoe.”
“The shoe? … Ah, yes, I recollect now. You were telling me.”
“If your lordship has no objection.”
“Objection, my dear fellow? None in the world. Why should I have any objection? Let me see! What is it you wish to do?”
“This,” said Baxter shortly.
He
