Something New, P. G. Wodehouse [best desktop ebook reader .TXT] 📗

Emsworth was one of the things for which he received his salary. He looked up from his cards.

“Lord Emsworth?”

“I have found a curious object in my pocket, Baxter. I was wondering how it got there.”

He handed the thing to his secretary. Rupert Baxter’s eyes lit up with sudden enthusiasm. He gasped.

“Magnificent!” he cried. “Superb!”

Lord Emsworth looked at him inquiringly.

“It is a scarab, Lord Emsworth; and unless I am mistaken⁠—and I think I may claim to be something of an expert⁠—a Cheops of the Fourth Dynasty. A wonderful addition to your museum!”

“Is it? By Gad! You don’t say so, Baxter!”

“It is, indeed. If it is not a rude question, how much did you give for it, Lord Emsworth? It must have been the gem of somebody’s collection. Was there a sale at Christie’s this afternoon?”

Lord Emsworth shook his head. “I did not get it at Christie’s, for I recollect that I had an important engagement which prevented my going to Christie’s. To be sure; yes⁠—I had promised to call on Mr. Peters and examine his collection of⁠—Now I wonder what it was that Mr. Peters said he collected!”

“Mr. Peters is one of the best-known living collectors of scarabs.”

“Scarabs! You are quite right, Baxter. Now that I recall the episode, this is a scarab; and Mr. Peters gave it to me.”

“Gave it to you, Lord Emsworth?”

“Yes. The whole scene comes back to me. Mr. Peters, after telling me a great many exceedingly interesting things about scarabs, which I regret to say I cannot remember, gave me this. And you say it is really valuable, Baxter?”

“It is, from a collector’s point of view, of extraordinary value.”

“Bless my soul!” Lord Emsworth beamed. “This is extremely interesting, Baxter. One has heard so much of the princely hospitality of Americans. How exceedingly kind of Mr. Peters! I shall certainly treasure it, though I must confess that from a purely spectacular standpoint it leaves me a little cold. However, I must not look a gift horse in the mouth⁠—eh, Baxter?”

From afar came the silver booming of a gong. Lord Emsworth rose.

“Time to dress for dinner? I had no idea it was so late. Baxter, you will be going past the museum door. Will you be a good fellow and place this among the exhibits? You will know what to do with it better than I. I always think of you as the curator of my little collection, Baxter⁠—ha-ha! Mind how you step when you are in the museum. I was painting a chair there yesterday and I think I left the paint pot on the floor.”

He cast a less amiable glance at his studious son.

“Get up, Frederick, and go and dress for dinner. What is that trash you are reading?”

The Honorable Freddie came out of his book much as a sleepwalker wakes⁠—with a sense of having been violently assaulted. He looked up with a kind of stunned plaintiveness.

“Eh, gov’nor?”

“Make haste! Beach rang the gong five minutes ago. What is that you are reading?”

“Oh, nothing, gov’nor⁠—just a book.”

“I wonder you can waste your time on such trash. Make haste!”

He turned to the door, and the benevolent expression once more wandered athwart his face.

“Extremely kind of Mr. Peters!” he said. “Really, there is something almost Oriental in the lavish generosity of our American cousins.”

It had taken R. Jones just six hours to discover Joan Valentine’s address. That it had not taken him longer is a proof of his energy and of the excellence of his system of obtaining information; but R. Jones, when he considered it worth his while, could be extremely energetic, and he was a past master at the art of finding out things.

He poured himself out of his cab and rang the bell of Number Seven. A disheveled maid answered the ring.

“Miss Valentine in?”

“Yes, sir.”

R. Jones produced his card.

“On important business, tell her. Half a minute⁠—I’ll write it.”

He wrote the words on the card and devoted the brief period of waiting to a careful scrutiny of his surroundings. He looked out into the court and he looked as far as he could down the dingy passage; and the conclusions he drew from what he saw were complimentary to Miss Valentine.

“If this girl is the sort of girl who would hold up Freddie’s letters,” he mused, “she wouldn’t be living in a place like this. If she were on the make she would have more money than she evidently possesses. Therefore, she is not on the make; and I am prepared to bet that she destroyed the letters as fast as she got them.”

Those were, roughly, the thoughts of R. Jones as he stood in the doorway of Number Seven; and they were important thoughts inasmuch as they determined his attitude toward Joan in the approaching interview. He perceived that this matter must be handled delicately⁠—that he must be very much the gentleman. It would be a strain, but he must do it.

The maid returned and directed him to Joan’s room with a brief word and a sweeping gesture.

“Eh?” said R. Jones. “First floor?”

“Front,” said the maid.

R. Jones trudged laboriously up the short flight of stairs. It was very dark on the stairs and he stumbled. Eventually, however, light came to him through an open door. Looking in, he saw a girl standing at the table. She had an air of expectation; so he deduced that he had reached his journey’s end.

“Miss Valentine?”

“Please come in.”

R. Jones waddled in.

“Not much light on your stairs.”

“No. Will you take a seat?”

“Thanks.”

One glance at the girl convinced R. Jones that he had been right. Circumstances had made him a rapid judge of character, for in the profession of living by one’s wits in a large city the first principle of offense and defense is to sum people up at first sight. This girl was not on the make.

Joan Valentine was a tall girl with wheat-gold hair and eyes as brightly blue as a November sky when the sun is shining on a frosty world. There was in them a little