“I waited until one o’clock.  Then I slipped down, got into the museum, struck a match, and looked for the scarab.  It wasn’t there.  I couldn’t believe it at first.  I struck some more matches—­quite a number—­but it was no good.  The scarab was gone; so I went back to bed and thought hard thoughts about you.  It was silly of me.  I ought to have known you would not break your word; but there didn’t seem any other solution of the thing’s disappearance.

“Well, somebody must have taken it; and the question is, what are we to do?” She laughed.  “It seems to me that we were a little premature in quarreling about how we are to divide that reward.  It looks as though there wasn’t going to be any reward.”

“Meantime,” said Ashe gloomily, “I suppose I have got to go back and tell Peters.  I expect it will break his heart.”

CHAPTER XI

Blandings Castle dozed in the calm of an English Sunday afternoon.  All was peace.  Freddie was in bed, with orders from the doctor to stay there until further notice.  Baxter had washed his face.  Lord Emsworth had returned to his garden fork.  The rest of the house party strolled about the grounds or sat in them, for the day was one of those late spring days that are warm with a premature suggestion of midsummer.

Aline Peters was sitting at the open window of her bedroom, which commanded an extensive view of the terraces.  A pile of letters lay on the table beside her, for she had just finished reading her mail.  The postman came late to the castle on Sundays and she had not been able to do this until luncheon was over.

Aline was puzzled.  She was conscious of a fit of depression for which she could in no way account.  She had a feeling that all was not well with the world, which was the more remarkable in that she was usually keenly susceptible to weather conditions and reveled in sunshine like a kitten.  Yet here was a day nearly as fine as an American day—­and she found no solace in it.

She looked down on the terrace; as she looked the figure of George Emerson appeared, walking swiftly.  And at the sight of him something seemed to tell her that she had found the key to her gloom.

There are many kinds of walk.  George Emerson’s was the walk of mental unrest.  His hands were clasped behind his back, his eyes stared straight in front of him from beneath lowering brows, and between his teeth was an unlighted cigar.  No man who is not a professional politician holds an unlighted cigar in his mouth unless he wishes to irritate and baffle a ticket chopper in the subway, or because unpleasant meditations have caused him to forget he has it there.  Plainly, then, all was not well with George Emerson.

Aline had suspected as much at luncheon; and looking back she realized that it was at luncheon her depression had begun.  The discovery startled her a little.  She had not been aware, or she had refused to admit to herself, that George’s troubles bulked so large on her horizon.  She had always told herself that she liked George, that George was a dear old friend, that George amused and stimulated her; but she would have denied she was so wrapped up in George that the sight of him in trouble would be enough to spoil for her the finest day she had seen since she left America.