Ashe Marson had yet to reach the age of tranquil mistrust; and when Fate seemed to be treating him kindly he was still young enough to accept such kindnesses on their face value and rejoice at them.

As he sat on his bed at the end of his first night in Castle Blandings, he was conscious to a remarkable degree that Fortune was treating him well.  He had survived—­not merely without discredit, but with positive triumph—­the initiatory plunge into the etiquette maelstrom of life below stairs.  So far from doing the wrong thing and drawing down on himself the just scorn of the steward’s room, he had been the life and soul of the party.  Even if to-morrow, in an absent-minded fit, he should anticipate the groom of the chambers in the march to the table, he would be forgiven; for the humorist has his privileges.

So much for that.  But that was only a part of Fortune’s kindnesses.  To have discovered on the first day of their association the correct method of handling and reducing to subjection his irascible employer was an even greater boon.  A prolonged association with Mr. Peters on the lines in which their acquaintance had begun would have been extremely trying.  Now, by virtue of a fortunate stand at the outset, he had spiked the millionaire’s guns.

Thirdly, and most important of all, he had not only made himself familiar with the locality and surroundings of the scarab, but he had seen, beyond the possibility of doubt, that the removal of it and the earning of the five thousand dollars would be the simplest possible task.  Already he was spending the money in his mind.  And to such lengths had optimism led him that, as he sat on his bed reviewing the events of the day, his only doubt was whether to get the scarab at once or to let it remain where it was until he had the opportunity of doing Mr. Peters’ interior good on the lines he had mapped out in their conversation; for, of course, directly he had restored the scarab to its rightful owner and pocketed the reward, his position as healer and trainer to the millionaire would cease automatically.

He was sorry for that, because it troubled him to think that a sick man would not be made well; but, on the whole, looking at it from every aspect, it would be best to get the scarab as soon as possible and leave Mr. Peters’ digestion to look after itself.  Being twenty-six and an optimist, he had no suspicion that Fate might be playing with him; that Fate might have unpleasant surprises in store; that Fate even now was preparing to smite him in his hour of joy with that powerful weapon, the Efficient Baxter.

He looked at his watch.  It was five minutes to one.  He had no idea whether they kept early hours at Blandings Castle or not, but he deemed it prudent to give the household another hour in which to settle down.  After which he would just trot down and collect the scarab.

The novel he had brought down with him from London fortunately proved interesting.  Two o’clock came before he was ready for it.  He slipped the book into his pocket and opened the door.