“We have here, sir,” he said, “a fair selection of our various foot coverings.”

“You did not drop any on your way?”

“Not one, sir.”

The Efficient Baxter uttered a grunt of satisfaction and bent once more to his task.  Shoes flew about the room.  Baxter knelt on the floor beside the basket, and dug like a terrier at a rat hole.  At last he made a find and with an exclamation of triumph rose to his feet.  In his hand he held a shoe.

“Put those back,” he said.

Ashe began to pick up the scattered footgear.

“That’s the lot, sir,” he said, rising.

“Now come with me.  Leave the basket there.  You can carry it back when you return.”

“Shall I put back that shoe, sir?”

“Certainly not.  I shall take this one with me.”

“Shall I carry it for you, sir?”

Baxter reflected.

“Yes.  I think that would be best.”

Trouble had shaken his nerve.  He was not certain that there might not be others besides Lord Emsworth in the garden; and it occurred to him that, especially after his reputation for eccentric conduct had been so firmly established by his misfortunes that night in the hall, it might cause comment should he appear before them carrying a shoe.

Ashe took the shoe and, doing so, understood what before had puzzled him.  Across the toe was a broad splash of red paint.  Though he had nothing else to go on, he saw all.  The shoe he held was a female shoe.  His own researches in the museum had made him aware of the presence there of red paint.  It was not difficult to build up on these data a pretty accurate estimate of the position of affairs.

“Come with me,” said Baxter.

He left the room.  Ashe followed him.

In the garden Lord Emsworth, garden fork in hand, was dealing summarily with a green young weed that had incautiously shown its head in the middle of a flower bed.  He listened to Baxter’s statement with more interest than he usually showed in anybody’s statements.  He resented the loss of the scarab, not so much on account of its intrinsic worth as because it had been the gift of his friend Mr. Peters.

“Indeed!” he said, when Baxter had finished.  “Really?  Dear me!  It certainly seems—­It is extremely suggestive.  You are certain there was red paint on this shoe?”

“I have it with me.  I brought it on purpose to show you.”  He looked at Ashe, who stood in close attendance.  “The shoe!”

Lord Emsworth polished his glasses and bent over the exhibit.

“Ah!” he said.  “Now let me look at—­This, you say, is the—­Just so; just so!  Just—­My dear Baxter, it may be that I have not examined this shoe with sufficient care, but—­Can you point out to me exactly where this paint is that you speak of?”

The Efficient Baxter stood staring at the shoe with wild, fixed stare.  Of any suspicion of paint, red or otherwise, it was absolutely and entirely innocent!