He said Ashe could not miss it.  Ashe said he was much obliged.

“Awfully good of you,” said Ashe.

“Not at all,” said Mr. Baxter.

“You lose your way in a place like this,” said Ashe.

“You certainly do,” said Mr. Baxter.

Ashe went on his upward path and in a few moments was knocking at the door indicated.  And sure enough it was Mr. Peters’ voice that invited him to enter.

Mr. Peters, partially arrayed in the correct garb for gentlemen about to dine, was standing in front of the mirror, wrestling with his evening tie.  As Ashe entered he removed his fingers and anxiously examined his handiwork.  It proved unsatisfactory.  With a yelp and an oath, he tore the offending linen from his neck.

“Damn the thing!”

It was plain to Ashe that his employer was in no sunny mood.  There are few things less calculated to engender sunniness in a naturally bad-tempered man than a dress tie that will not let itself be pulled and twisted into the right shape.  Even when things went well, Mr. Peters hated dressing for dinner.  Words cannot describe his feelings when they went wrong.

There is something to be said in excuse for this impatience:  It is a hollow mockery to be obliged to deck one’s person as for a feast when that feast is to consist of a little asparagus and a few nuts.

Mr. Peters’ eye met Ashe’s in the mirror.

“Oh, it’s you, is it?  Come in, then.  Don’t stand staring.  Close that door quick!  Hustle!  Don’t scrape your feet on the floor.  Try to look intelligent.  Don’t gape.  Where have you been all this while?  Why didn’t you come before?  Can you tie a tie?  All right, then—­do it!”

Somewhat calmed by the snow-white butterfly-shaped creation that grew under Ashe’s fingers, he permitted himself to be helped into his coat.  He picked up the remnant of a black cigar from the dressing-table and relit it.

“I’ve been thinking about you,” he said.

“Yes?” said Ashe.

“Have you located the scarab yet?”

“No.”

“What the devil have you been doing with yourself then?  You’ve had time to collar it a dozen times.”

“I have been talking to the butler.”

“What the devil do you waste time talking to butlers for?  I suppose you haven’t even located the museum yet?”

“Yes; I’ve done that.”

“Oh, you have, have you?  Well, that’s something.  And how do you propose setting about the job?”

“The best plan would be to go there very late at night.”

“Well, you didn’t propose to stroll in in the afternoon, did you?  How are you going to find the scarab when you do get in?”

Ashe had not thought of that.  The deeper he went into this business the more things did there seem to be in it of which he had not thought.

“I don’t know,” he confessed.

“You don’t know!  Tell me, young man, are you considered pretty bright, as Englishmen go?”