“I was not aware, sir,” said Beach, the butler, “that you were in occupation of the museum.  I would not have intruded; but this young man expressed a desire to examine the exhibits, and I took the liberty of conducting him.”

“Come in, Beach—­come in,” said Baxter.

The light fell on Ashe’s face, and he recognized him as the cheerful young man who had inquired the way to Mr. Peters’ room before dinner and who, he had by this time discovered, was not the Honorable Freddie’s friend, George Emerson—­or, indeed, any other of the guests of the house.  He felt suspicious.

“Oh, Beach!”

“Sir?”

“Just a moment.”

He drew the butler into the hall, out of earshot.

“Beach, who is that man?”

“Mr. Peters’ valet, sir.”

“Mr. Peters’ valet!”

“Yes, sir.”

“Has he been in service long?” asked Baxter, remembering that a mere menial had addressed him as “old man.”

Beach lowered his voice.  He and the Efficient Baxter were old allies, and it seemed right to Beach to confide in him.

“He has only just joined Mr. Peters, sir; and he has never been in service before.  He told me so himself, and I was unable to elicit from him any information as to his antecedents.  His manner struck me, sir, as peculiar.  It crossed my mind to wonder whether Mr. Peters happened to be aware of this.  I should dislike to do any young man an injury; but it might be anyone coming to a gentleman without a character, like this young man.  Mr. Peters might have been deceived, sir.”

The Efficient Baxter’s manner became distraught.  His mind was working rapidly.

“Should he be informed, sir?”

“Eh!  Who?”

“Mr. Peters, sir—­in case he should have been deceived?”

“No, no; Mr. Peters knows his own business.”

“Far from me be it to appear officious, sir; but—­”

“Mr. Peters probably knows all about him.  Tell me, Beach, who was it suggested this visit to the museum?  Did you?”

“It was at the young man’s express desire that I conducted him, sir.”

The Efficient Baxter returned to the museum without a word.  Ashe, standing in the middle of the room, was impressing the topography of the place on his memory.  He was unaware of the piercing stare of suspicion that was being directed at him from behind.

He did not see Baxter.  He was not even thinking of Baxter; but Baxter was on the alert.  Baxter was on the warpath.  Baxter knew!

CHAPTER VI

Among the compensations of advancing age is a wholesome pessimism, which, though it takes the fine edge off of whatever triumphs may come to us, has the admirable effect of preventing Fate from working off on us any of those gold bricks, coins with strings attached, and unhatched chickens, at which ardent youth snatches with such enthusiasm, to its subsequent disappointment.  As we emerge from the twenties we grow into a habit of mind that looks askance at Fate bearing gifts.  We miss, perhaps, the occasional prize, but we also avoid leaping light-heartedly into traps.