“My dear Horace!  Your father-in-law!  The head of the family!”

“A dashed lunatic, my dear sir—­head of the family or no head of the family.  A man as absent-minded as he is has no right to call himself sane.  Nobody in the house—­I recollect it now—­nobody in the house except gas, and that has not been turned on.  That’s Emsworth!”

The Efficient Baxter, who had just left his presence, was feeling much the same about his noble employer.  After a sleepless night he had begun at an early hour to try and corner Lord Emsworth in order to explain to him the true inwardness of last night’s happenings.  Eventually he had tracked him to the museum, where he found him happily engaged in painting a cabinet of birds’ eggs.  He was seated on a small stool, a large pot of red paint on the floor beside him, dabbing at the cabinet with a dripping brush.  He was absorbed and made no attempt whatever to follow his secretary’s remarks.

For ten minutes Baxter gave a vivid picture of his vigil and the manner in which it had been interrupted.

“Just so; just so, my dear fellow,” said the earl when he had finished.  “I quite understand.  All I say is, if you do require additional food in the night let one of the servants bring it to your room before bedtime; then there will be no danger of these disturbances.  There is no possible objection to your eating a hundred meals a day, my good Baxter, provided you do not rouse the whole house over them.  Some of us like to sleep during the night.”

“But, Lord Emsworth!  I have just explained—­It was not—­I was not—­”

“Never mind, my dear fellow; never mind.  Why make such an important thing of it?  Many people like a light snack before actually retiring.  Doctors, I believe, sometimes recommend it.  Tell me, Baxter, how do you think the museum looks now?  A little brighter?  Better for the dash of color?  I think so.  Museums are generally such gloomy places.”

“Lord Emsworth, may I explain once again?”

The earl looked annoyed.

“My dear Baxter, I have told you that there is nothing to explain.  You are getting a little tedious.  What a deep, rich red this is, and how clean new paint smells!  Do you know, Baxter, I have been longing to mess about with paint ever since I was a boy!  I recollect my old father beating me with a walking stick. . . .  That would be before your time, of course.  By the way, if you see Freddie, will you tell him I want to speak to him?  He probably is in the smoking-room.  Send him to me here.”

It was an overwrought Baxter who delivered the message to the Honorable Freddie, who, as predicted, was in the smoking-room, lounging in a deep armchair.

There are times when life presses hard on a man, and it pressed hard on Baxter now.  Fate had played him a sorry trick.  It had put him in a position where he had to choose between two courses, each as disagreeable as the other.  He must either face a possible second fiasco like that of last night, or else he must abandon his post and cease to mount guard over his threatened treasure.