Freddie glanced at the deputation without interest. His mind was occupied with other matters. He supposed they had come to inquire after his ankle and he was mildly thankful that they had come in a body instead of one by one. The deputation grouped itself about the bed and shuffled its feet. There was an atmosphere of awkwardness.
"Er—Frederick!" said Lord Emsworth. "Freddie, my boy!"
Mr. Peters fiddled dumbly with the coverlet. Colonel Mant cleared his throat. The Efficient Baxter scowled. "Er—Freddie, my dear boy, I fear we have a painful—er—task to perform."
The words struck straight home at the Honorable Freddie's guilty conscience. Had they, too, tracked him down? And was he now to be accused of having stolen that infernal scarab? A wave of relief swept over him as he realized that he had got rid of the thing. A decent chappie like that detective would not give him away. All he had to do was to keep his head and stick to stout denial. That was the game—stout denial.
"I don't know what you mean," he said defensively.
"Of course you don't—dash it!" said Colonel Mant. "We're coming to that. And I should like to begin by saying that, though in a sense it was my fault, I fail to see how I could have acted—-"
"Horace!"
"Oh, very well! I was only trying to explain."
Lord Emsworth adjusted his pince-nez and sought inspiration from the wall paper.
"Freddie, my boy," he began, "we have a somewhat unpleasant—a somewhat er—disturbing—We are compelled to break it to you. We are all most pained and astounded; and—"