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‘Clarence!’ It was Lady Constance who spoke. ‘Put that gun down.’

‘Certainly not.’

‘Clarence!’

‘Oh, all right.’

‘And now, Mr Baxter,’ said Lady Constance, proceeding to dominate the scene in her masterly way, ‘I am sure you can explain.’

Her agitation had passed. It was not in this strong woman to remain agitated long. She had been badly shaken, but her faith in her idol still held good. Remarkable as his behaviour might appear, she was sure that he could account for it in a perfectly satisfactory manner.

Baxter did not speak. His silence gave Lord Emsworth the opportunity of advancing his own views.

‘Explain?’ He spoke petulantly, for he resented the way in which his sister had thrust him from the centre of the stage. ‘What on earth is there to explain? The thing’s obvious.’

‘Can’t say I’ve quite got to the bottom of it,’ murmured the Hon. Galahad. ‘Fellow under bed. Why? Why under bed? Why here at all?’

Lord Emsworth hesitated. He was a kind-hearted man, and he felt that what he had to say would be better said in Baxter’s absence. However, there seemed no way out of it, so he proceeded.

‘My dear Galahad, think!’

‘Eh?’

‘That flower-pot affair. You remember?’

‘Oh!’ Understanding shone in the Hon. Galahad’s monocle. You mean . . .?’

‘Exactly.’

‘Yes, yes. Of course. Subject to these attacks, you mean?’

‘Precisely.’

This was not the first time Lady Constance Keeble had had the opportunity of hearing a theory ventilated by her brothers which she found detestable. She flushed brightly.

‘Clarence!’

‘My dear?’

‘Kindly stop talking in that offensive way.’

‘God bless my soul!’ Lord Emsworth was stung. ‘I like that. What have I said that is offensive?’

‘You know perfectly well.’

‘If you mean that I was reminding Galahad in the most delicate way that poor Baxter here is not quite . . .’

‘Clarence!’

‘All very well to say “Clarence!” like that. You know yourself he isn’t right in the head.

Didn’t he throw flower-pots at me? Didn’t he leap out of the window this very afternoon?

Didn’t he try to make me think that Beach . . .’

Baxter interrupted. There were certain matters on which he considered silence best, but this was one on which he could speak freely.

‘Lord Emsworth!’

‘Eh?’

‘It has now come to my knowledge that Beach was not the prime mover in the theft of your pig. But I have ascertained that he was an accessory.’

‘A what?’

‘He helped,’ said Baxter, grinding his teeth a little. ‘The man who committed the actual theft was your nephew Ronald.’

Lord Emsworth turned to his sister with a triumphant gesture, like one who has been vindicated.

‘There! Now perhaps you’ll say he’s not potty? It won’t do, Baxter, my dear fellow,’ he went on, waggling a reproachful gun at his late employee. You really mustn’t excite yourself by making up these stories.’

‘Bad for the blood-pressure,’ agreed the Hon. Galahad.

‘The Empress was found this evening in your caravan,’ said Lord Emsworth.

‘What!’

‘In your caravan. Where you put her when you stole her. And, bless my soul,’ said Lord Emsworth, with a start, ‘I must be going and seeing that she is put back in her sty. I must find Pirbright. I must . . .’

‘In my caravan?’ Baxter passed a feverish hand across his dust-stained forehead.

Illumination came to him. ‘Then that’s what that fellow Carmody did with the animal!’

Lord Emsworth had had enough of this. Empress of Bland-ings was waiting for him.

Counting the minutes to that holy reunion, he chafed at having to stand here listening to these wild ravings.

‘First Beach, then Ronald, then Carmody! You’ll be saying I stole her next, or Galahad here, or my sister Constance. Baxter, my dear fellow, we aren’t blaming you. Please don’t think that. We quite see how it is. You will overwork yourself, and, of course, nature demands the penalty. I wish you would go quietly to your room, my dear fellow, and lie down. All this must be very bad for you.’

Lady Constance intervened. Her eye was aflame, and she spoke like Cleopatra telling an Ethiopian slave where he got off.

‘Clarence, will you kindly use whatever slight intelligence you may possess? The theft of your pig is one of the most trivial and unimportant things that ever happened in this world, and I consider the fuss that has been made about it quite revolting. But whoever stole the wretched animal . . .’

Lord Emsworth blenched. He started as if wondering if he had heard aright.

‘. . . and wherever it has been found, it was certainly not Mr Baxter who stole it. It is, as Mr Baxter says, much more likely to have been a young man like Mr Carmody. There is a certain type of young man, I believe, to which Mr Carmody belongs, which considers practical joking amusing. Do ask yourself, Clarence, and try to answer the question as reasonably as is possible for a man of your mental calibre: What earthly motive would Mr Baxter have for coming to Blandings Castle and stealing pigs?’

It may have been the feel of the gun in his hand which awoke in Lord Emsworth old memories of dashing days with the Shropshire Yeomanry and lent him some of the hot spirit of his vanished youth. The fact remains that he did not wilt beneath his sister’s dominating eye. He met it boldly, and boldly answered back.

‘And ask yourself, Constance,’ he said, ‘what earthly motive Mr Baxter has for anything he does.’

‘Yes,’ said the Hon. Galahad loyally. ‘What motive had our friend Baxter for coming to Blandings Castle and scaring girls stiff by hiding under beds?’

Lady Constance gulped. They had found the weak spot in her defences. She turned to the man who she still hoped could deal efficiently with this attack.

‘Mr Baxter!’ she said, as if she were calling on him for an after-dinner speech.

But Rupert Baxter had had no dinner. And it was perhaps this that turned the scale. Quite suddenly there descended on him a frenzied desire to be out of this, cost what it might.

An hour before, half an hour before, even five minutes before, his tongue had been tied by a still lingering hope that he might yet find his way back to Blandings Castle in the capacity of private secretary to the Earl of Emsworth. Now, he felt that he would not accept that post, were it offered to him on bended knee.

A sudden overpowering hatred of Blandings Castle and all it contained gripped the Efficient Baxter. He marvelled that he had ever wanted to come back. He held at the present moment the well-paid and responsible position of secretary and adviser to J.

Horace Jevons, the American millionaire, a man who not only treated him with an obsequiousness and respect which were balm to his soul, but also gave him such sound advice on the investment of money that already he had trebled his savings. And it was this golden-hearted Chicagoan whom he had been thinking of deserting, purely to satisfy some obscure sentiment which urged him to return to a house which, he now saw, he loathed as few houses have been loathed since human beings left off living in caves.

His eyes flashed through their lenses. His mouth tightened.

‘I will explain!’

‘I knew you would have an explanation,’ cried Lady Constance.

‘I have. A very simple one.’

And short, I hope?’ asked Lord Emsworth, restlessly. He was aching to have done with all this talk and discussion and to be with his pig once more. To think of the Empress languishing in a beastly caravan was agony to him.

‘Quite short,’ said Rupert Baxter.

The only person in the room who so far had remained entirely outside this rather painful scene was Sue. She had looked on from her place by the window, an innocent bystander.

She now found herself drawn abruptly into the maelstrom of the debate. Baxter’s spectacles were raking her from head to foot, and he had pointed at her with an accusing forefinger.

‘I came to this room,’ he said, ‘to try to recover a letter which I had written to this lady who calls herself Miss Schoonmaker.’

‘Of course she calls herself Miss Schoonmaker,’ said Lord Emsworth, reluctantly dragging his thoughts from the Empress. ‘It’s her name, my dear fellow. That,’ he explained gently, ‘is why she calls herself Miss Schoonmaker. God bless my soul!’ he said, unable to restrain a sudden spurt of irritability. ‘If a girl’s name is Schoonmaker, naturally she calls herself Miss Schoonmaker.’

‘Yes, if it is. But hers is not. It is Brown.’

‘Listen, my dear fellow,’ said Lord Emsworth soothingly. ‘You are only exciting yourself by going on like this. Probably doing yourself a great deal of harm. Now, what I suggest is, that you go to your room and put a cool compress on your forehead and lie down and take a good rest. I will send Beach up to you with some nice bread-and-milk.’

‘Rum and milk,’ amended the Hon. Galahad. ‘It’s the only thing. I knew a fellow in the year ‘97 who was subject to these spells – you probably remember him, Clarence.

Bellamy. Barmy Bellamy we used to call him – and whenever . . .’

‘Her name is Brown!’ repeated Baxter, his voice soaring in a hysterical crescendo. ‘Sue Brown. She is a chorus-girl at the Regal Theatre in London. And she is apparently engaged to be married to your nephew Ronald.’

Lady Constance uttered a cry. Lord Emsworth expressed his feelings with a couple of tuts. The Hon. Galahad alone was silent. He caught Sue’s eye, and there was concern in his gaze.

‘I overheard Beach saying so in this very room. He said he had had the information from Mr Pilbeam. I imagine it to be accurate. But in any case, I can tell you this much.

Whoever she is, she is an impostor who has come here under a false name. While I was in the smoking-room some time back a telegram came through on the telephone from Market Blandings. It was signed Myra Schoonmaker, and it had been handed in in Paris this afternoon. That is all I have to say,’ concluded Baxter. ‘I will now leave you, and I sincerely hope I shall never set eyes on any of you again. Good evening!’

His spectacles glinting coldly, he strode from the room and in the doorway collided with Ronnie, who was entering.

‘Can’t you look where you’re going?’ he asked.

‘Eh?’said Ronnie.

‘Clumsy idiot!’ said the Efficient Baxter, and was gone.

In the room he had left, Lady Constance Keeble had become a stony figure of menace.

She was not at ordinary times a particularly tall woman, but she seemed now to tower like something vast and awful: and Sue quailed before her.

‘Ronnie!’ cried Sue weakly.

It was the cry of the female in distress, calling to her mate. Just so in prehistoric days must Sue’s cavewoman ancestress have cried to the man behind the club when suddenly cornered by the sabre-toothed tiger which Lady Constance Keeble so closely resembled.

‘Ronnie!’

‘What’s all this?’ asked the last of the Fishes.

He was breathing rather quickly, for the going had been fast. Pilbeam, once out in the open, had shown astonishing form at the short sprint. He had shaken off Ronnie’s challenge twenty yards down the drive, and plunged into a convenient shrubbery, and Ronnie, giving up the pursuit, had come back to Sue’s room to report. It occasioned him some surprise to find that in his absence it had become the scene of some sort of public meeting.

‘What’s all this?’ he said, addressing that meeting.

Lady Constance wheeled round upon him.

‘Ronald, who is this girl?’

‘Eh?’ Ronnie was conscious of a certain uneasiness, but he did his best. He did not like his aunt’s looks, but then he never had. Something was evidently up, but it might be that airy nonchalance would save the day. ‘You know her, don’t you? Miss Schoonmaker?

Met her with me in London.’

‘Is her name Brown? And is she a chorus-girl?’

‘Why, yes,’ admitted Ronnie. It was a bombshell, but Eton and Cambridge stood it well.

‘Why, yes,’ he said, ‘as a matter of fact, that’s right.’

Words seemed to fail Lady Constance. Judging from the expression on her face this was just as well.

‘I’d been meaning to tell you about that,’ said Ronnie. ‘We’re engaged.’

Lady Constance recovered herself sufficiently to find one word.

‘Clarence!’

‘Eh?’ said Lord Emsworth. His thoughts had been wandering.

‘You heard?’

‘Heard what?’

Beyond the stage of turbulent emotion, Lady Constance had become suddenly calm and icy.

‘If you have not been sufficiently interested to listen,’ she said, ‘I may inform you that Ronald has just announced his intention of marrying a chorus-girl.’

‘Oh, ah?’ said Lord Emsworth. Would a man of Baxter’s outstandingly unbalanced intellect, he was wondering, have remembered to feed the Empress regularly? The thought was like a spear quivering in his heart. He edged in agitation towards the door, and had reached it when he perceived that his sister had not yet finished talking to him.

‘So that is all the comment you have to make, is it?’

‘Eh? What about?’

‘The point I have been endeavouring to make you understand,’ went on Lady Constance, with laborious politeness, ‘is that your nephew Ronald has announced his intention of marrying into the Regal Theatre chorus.’

‘Who?’

‘Ronald. This is Ronald. He is anxious to marry Miss Brown, a chorus-girl. This is Miss Brown.’

‘How do you do?’ said Lord Emsworth. He might be vague, but he had the manners of the old school.

Ronnie interposed. The time had come to play the ace of trumps.

‘She isn’t an ordinary chorus-girl.’

‘From the fact of her coming to Blandings Castle under a false name,’ said Lady Constance, ‘I imagine not. It shows unusual enterprise.’

‘What I mean,’ continued Ronnie, ‘is, I know what a bally snob you are, Aunt Constance

– no offence, but you know what I mean – keen on birth and family and all that sort of rot . . . well, what I’m driving at is that Sue’s father was in the Guards.’

‘A private? Or a corporal?’

‘Captain. A fellow named . . .’

‘Cotterleigh,’ said Sue in a small voice.

‘Cotterleigh,’ said Ronnie.