Lord Emsworth sat and smoked, and sipped and smoked again, at peace with all the world.  His mind was as nearly a blank as it is possible for the human mind to be.  The hand that had not the task of holding the cigar was at rest in his trousers pocket.  The fingers of it fumbled idly with a small, hard object.

Gradually it filtered into his lordship’s mind that this small, hard object was not familiar.  It was something new—­something that was neither his keys nor his pencil; nor was it his small change.  He yielded to a growing curiosity and drew it out.  He examined it.  It was a little something, rather like a fossilized beetle.  It touched no chord in him.  He looked at it with amiable distaste.

“Now how in the world did that get there?” he said.

The Honorable Freddie paid no attention to the remark.  He was now at the very crest of his story, when every line intensified the thrill.  Incident was succeeding incident.  The Secret Six were here, there and everywhere, like so many malignant June bugs.

Annabel, the heroine, was having a perfectly rotten time—­kidnapped, and imprisoned every few minutes.  Gridley Quayle, hot on the scent, was covering somebody or other with his revolver almost continuously.  Freddie Threepwood had no time for chatting with his father.  Not so Rupert Baxter.  Chatting with Lord 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?”