“Dear me!” he said.  “I must remember to tell Beach to have his chimney swept.  It seems to need it badly.”

No trumpet-call ever acted more instantaneously on old war-horse than this simple remark on the Efficient Baxter.  He was still convinced that Ashe had hidden the shoe somewhere in the room, and, now that the closet had proved an alibi, the chimney was the only spot that remained unsearched.  He dived forward with a rush, nearly knocking Lord Emsworth off his feet, and thrust an arm up into the unknown.  The startled peer, having recovered his balance, met Ashe’s respectfully pitying gaze.

“We must humor him,” said the gaze, more plainly than speech.

Baxter continued to grope.  The chimney was a roomy chimney, and needed careful examination.  He wriggled his hand about clutchingly.  From time to time soot fell in gentle showers.

“My dear Baxter!”

Baxter was baffled.  He withdrew his hand from the chimney, and straightened himself.  He brushed a bead of perspiration from his face with the back of his hand.  Unfortunately, he used the sooty hand, and the result was too much for Lord Emsworth’s politeness.  He burst into a series of pleased chuckles.

“Your face, my dear Baxter!  Your face!  It is positively covered with soot—­positively!  You must go and wash it.  You are quite black.  Really, my dear fellow, you present rather an extraordinary appearance.  Run off to your room.”

Against this crowning blow the Efficient Baxter could not stand up.  It was the end.

“Soot!” he murmured weakly.  “Soot!”

“Your face is covered, my dear fellow—­quite covered.”

“It certainly has a faintly sooty aspect, sir,” said Ashe.

His voice roused the sufferer to one last flicker of spirit.

“You will hear more of this,” he said.  “You will—­”

At this moment, slightly muffled by the intervening door and passageway, there came from the direction of the hall a sound like the delivery of a ton of coal.  A heavy body bumped down the stairs, and a voice which all three recognized as that of the Honorable Freddie uttered an oath that lost itself in a final crash and a musical splintering sound, which Baxter for one had no difficulty in recognizing as the dissolution of occasional china.

Even if they had not so able a detective as Baxter with them, Lord Emsworth and Ashe would have been at no loss to guess what had happened.  Doctor Watson himself could have deduced it from the evidence.  The Honorable Freddie had fallen downstairs.

* * *

With a little ingenuity this portion of the story of Mr. Peters’ scarab could be converted into an excellent tract, driving home the perils, even in this world, of absenting one’s self from church on Sunday morning.  If the Honorable Freddie had gone to church he would not have been running down the great staircase at the castle at this hour; and if he had not been running down the great staircase at the castle at that hour he would not have encountered Muriel.