“I say, you know,” he said ingratiatingly, “I think it’s bally marvelous the way you’ve deduced everything, and so on.”
“Well?”
“But I believe you would chuck it if you heard my side of the case.”
“I know your side of the case. You think you are being blackmailed by a Miss Valentine for some letters you once wrote her. You are not. Miss Valentine has destroyed the letters. She told the man Jones so when he went to see her in London. He kept your five hundred pounds and is trying to get another thousand out of you under false pretenses.”
“What? You can’t be right.”
“I am always right.”
“You must be mistaken.”
“I am never mistaken.”
“But how do you know?”
“I have my sources of information.”
“She isn’t going to sue me for breach of promise?”
“She never had any intention of doing so.”
The Honorable Freddie sank back on the pillows.
“Good egg!” he said with fervor. He beamed happily. “This,” he observed, “is a bit of all right.”
For a space relief held him dumb. Then another aspect of the matter struck him, and he sat up again with a jerk.
“I say, you don’t mean to say that that rotter Jones was such a rotter as to do a rotten thing like that?”
“I do.”
Freddie grew plaintive.
“I trusted that man,” he said. “I jolly well trusted him absolutely.”
“I know,” said Ashe. “There is one born every minute.”
“But”—the thing seemed to be filtering slowly into Freddie’s intelligence “what I mean to say is, I—I—thought he was such a good chap.”
“My short acquaintance with Mr. Jones,” said Ashe, “leads me to think that he probably is—to himself.”
“I won’t have anything more to do with him.”
“I shouldn’t.”
“Dash it, I’ll tell you what I’ll do. The very next time I meet the blighter, I’ll cut him dead. I will! The rotter! Five hundred quid he’s had off me for nothing! And, if it hadn’t been for you, he’d have had another thousand! I’m beginning to think that my old governor wasn’t so far wrong when he used to curse me for going around with Jones and the rest of that crowd. He knew a bit, by Gad! Well, I’m through with them. If the governor ever lets me go to London again, I won’t have anything to do with them. I’ll jolly well cut the whole bunch! And to think that, if it hadn’t been for you …”
“Never mind that,” said Ashe. “Give me the scarab. Where is it?”
“What are you going to do with it?”
“Restore it to its rightful owner.”
“Are you going to give me away to the governor?”
“I am not.”
“It strikes me,” said Freddie gratefully, “that you are a dashed good sort. You seem to me to have the making of an absolute topper! It’s under the mattress. I had it on me when I fell downstairs and I had to shove it in there.”
Ashe drew it out. He stood looking at it, absorbed. He could hardly believe his quest was at an end and that a small fortune lay in the palm of his hand. Freddie was eyeing him admiringly.
“You know,” he said, “I’ve always wanted to meet a detective. What beats me is how you chappies find out things.”
“We have our methods.”
“I believe you. You’re a blooming marvel! What first put you on my track?”
“That,” said Ashe, “would take too long to explain. Of course I had to do some tense inductive reasoning; but I cannot trace every link in the chain for you. It would be tedious.”
“Not to me.”
“Some other time.”
“I say, I wonder whether you’ve ever read any of these things—these Gridley Quayle stories? I know them by heart.”
With the scarab safely in his pocket, Ashe could contemplate the brightly-colored volume the other extended toward him without active repulsion. Already he was beginning to feel a sort of sentiment for the depressing Quayle, as something that had once formed part of his life.
“Do you read these things?”
“I should say not. I write them.”
There are certain supreme moments that cannot be adequately described. Freddie’s appreciation of the fact that such a moment had occurred in his life expressed itself in a startled cry and a convulsive movement of all his limbs. He shot up from the pillows and gaped at Ashe.
“You write them? You don’t mean, write them!”
“Yes.”
“Great Scott!”
He would have gone on, doubtless, to say more; but at this moment voices made themselves heard outside the door. There was a movement of feet. Then the door opened and a small procession entered.
It was headed by the Earl of Emsworth. Following him came Mr. Peters. And in the wake of the millionaire were Colonel Horace Mant and the Efficient Baxter. They filed into the room and stood by the bedside. Ashe seized the opportunity to slip out.
Freddie glanced at the deputation without interest. His mind was occupied with other matters. He supposed they had come to inquire after his ankle and he was mildly thankful that they had come in a body instead of one by one. The deputation grouped itself about the bed and shuffled its feet. There was an atmosphere of awkwardness.
“Er—Frederick!” said Lord Emsworth. “Freddie, my boy!”
Mr. Peters fiddled dumbly with the coverlet. Colonel Mant cleared his throat. The Efficient Baxter scowled. “Er—Freddie, my dear boy, I fear we have a painful—er—task to perform.”
The words struck straight home at the Honorable Freddie’s guilty conscience. Had they, too, tracked him down? And was he now to be accused of having stolen that infernal scarab? A wave of relief swept over him as he realized that he had got rid of the thing. A decent chappie like that detective would not give him away. All he had to do was to keep his head and stick to stout denial. That was the game—stout denial.
“I don’t know what you mean,” he said defensively.
“Of course you don’t—dash it!” said Colonel
