“I will tell you,” he said.  “If you can spare me a few moments of your valuable time I will put the facts before you.  Yes; press that bell if you wish—­and I will put them before witnesses.  Lord Emsworth will no doubt be pleased to learn that his son, whom he trusted, is a thief!”

Freddie’s hand fell limply.  The bell remained un-touched.  His mouth opened to its fullest extent.  In the midst of his panic he had a curious feeling that he had heard or read that last sentence somewhere before.  Then he remembered.  Those very words occurred in Gridley Quayle, Investigator—­The Adventure of the Blue Ruby.

“What—­what do you mean?” he stammered.

“I will tell you what I mean.  On Saturday night a valuable scarab was stolen from Lord Emsworth’s private museum.  The case was put into my hands——­”

“Great Scott!  Are you a detective?”

“Ah!” said Ashe.

Life, as many a worthy writer has pointed out, is full of ironies.  It seemed to Freddie that here was a supreme example of this fact.  All these years he had wanted to meet a detective; and now that his wish had been gratified the detective was detecting him!

“The case,” continued Ashe severely, “was placed in my hands.  I investigated it.  I discovered that you were in urgent and immediate need of money.”

“How on earth did you do that?”

“Ah!” said Ashe.  “I further discovered that you were in communication with an individual named Jones.”

“Good Lord!  How?”

Ashe smiled quietly.

“Yesterday I had a talk with this man Jones, who is staying in Market Blandings.  Why is he staying in Market Blandings?  Because he had a reason for keeping in touch with you; because you were about to transfer to his care something you could get possession of, but which only he could dispose of—­the scarab.”

The Honorable Freddie was beyond speech.  He made no comment on this statement.  Ashe continued: 

“I interviewed this man Jones.  I said to him:  ’I am in the Honorable Frederick Threepwood’s confidence.  I know everything.  Have you any instructions for me?’ He replied:  ’What do you know?’ I answered:  ’I know that the Honorable Frederick Threepwood has something he wishes to hand to you, but which he has been unable to hand to you owing to having had an accident and being confined to his room.’  He then told me to tell you to let him have the scarab by messenger.”

Freddie pulled himself together with an effort.  He was in sore straits, but he saw one last chance.  His researches in detective fiction had given him the knowledge that detectives occasionally relaxed their austerity when dealing with a deserving case.  Even Gridley Quayle could sometimes be softened by a hard-luck story.  Freddie could recall half a dozen times when a detected criminal had been spared by him because he had done it all from the best motives.  He determined to throw himself on Ashe’s mercy.