“It is, from a collector’s point of view, of extraordinary value.”

“Bless my soul!” Lord Emsworth beamed.  “This is extremely interesting, Baxter.  One has heard so much of the princely hospitality of Americans.  How exceedingly kind of Mr. Peters!  I shall certainly treasure it, though I must confess that from a purely spectacular standpoint it leaves me a little cold.  However, I must not look a gift horse in the mouth—­eh, Baxter?”

From afar came the silver booming of a gong.  Lord Emsworth rose.

“Time to dress for dinner?  I had no idea it was so late.  Baxter, you will be going past the museum door.  Will you be a good fellow and place this among the exhibits?  You will know what to do with it better than I. I always think of you as the curator of my little collection, Baxter—­ha-ha!  Mind how you step when you are in the museum.  I was painting a chair there yesterday and I think I left the paint pot on the floor.”

He cast a less amiable glance at his studious son.

“Get up, Frederick, and go and dress for dinner.  What is that trash you are reading?”

The Honorable Freddie came out of his book much as a sleepwalker wakes—­with a sense of having been violently assaulted.  He looked up with a kind of stunned plaintiveness.

“Eh, gov’nor?”

“Make haste!  Beach rang the gong five minutes ago.  What is that you are reading?”

“Oh, nothing, gov’nor—­just a book.”

“I wonder you can waste your time on such trash.  Make haste!”

He turned to the door, and the benevolent expression once more wandered athwart his face.

“Extremely kind of Mr. Peters!” he said.  “Really, there is something almost Oriental in the lavish generosity of our American cousins.”

* * *

It had taken R. Jones just six hours to discover Joan Valentine’s address.  That it had not taken him longer is a proof of his energy and of the excellence of his system of obtaining information; but R. Jones, when he considered it worth his while, could be extremely energetic, and he was a past master at the art of finding out things.

He poured himself out of his cab and rang the bell of Number Seven.  A disheveled maid answered the ring.

“Miss Valentine in?”

“Yes, sir.”

R. Jones produced his card.

“On important business, tell her.  Half a minute—­I’ll write it.”

He wrote the words on the card and devoted the brief period of waiting to a careful scrutiny of his surroundings.  He looked out into the court and he looked as far as he could down the dingy passage; and the conclusions he drew from what he saw were complimentary to Miss Valentine.

“If this girl is the sort of girl who would hold up Freddie’s letters,” he mused, “she wouldn’t be living in a place like this.  If she were on the make she would have more money than she evidently possesses.  Therefore, she is not on the make; and I am prepared to bet that she destroyed the letters as fast as she got them.”