.. -*- encoding: utf-8 -*-

.. meta::
   :PG.Id: 43674
   :PG.Title: The Cardinal Moth
   :PG.Released: 2013-09-08
   :PG.Rights: Public Domain
   :PG.Producer: Al Haines
   :PG.Reposted: 2013-09-15 error corrections
   :PG.Reposted: 2015-07-24 error corrections
   :DC.Creator: Fred \M. White
   :DC.Title: The Cardinal Moth
   :DC.Language: en
   :DC.Created: 1905
   :coverpage: images/img-cover.jpg

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THE CARDINAL MOTH
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      :alt: "'The Cardinal Moth,' Frobisher said, hoarsely." (Chapter I.)

      "'The Cardinal Moth,' Frobisher said, hoarsely." (Chapter I.)

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      THE CARDINAL
      MOTH

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      BY

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      FRED M. WHITE

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      Author of "The Crimson Blind," "The Weight of the Crown,"
      "The Corner House," etc., etc.

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      WARD, LOCK, & CO., LIMITED
      LONDON AND MELBOURNE
      1905

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      Made and Printed in Great Britain by
      WARD, LOCK & Co., LIMITED, LONDON.

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   CONTENTS.

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CHAPTER

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I.—`FLOWERS OF BLOOD`_
II.—`ANGELA`_
III.—`CROSSED SWORDS`_
IV.—`A DUSKY POTENTATE`_
V.—`AN INTERRUPTED FEAST`_
VI.—`BIT OF THE ROPE`_
VII.—`A GRIP OF STEEL`_
VIII.—`THE WEAKER VESSEL`_
IX.—`A WORD TO THE WISE`_
X.—`A WORD TO THE WISE.`_
XI.—`BORROWED PLUMES`_
XII.—`A MODEL HUSBAND`_
XIII.—`THE QUEEN OF THE RUBIES`_
XIV.—`"UNEASY LIES THE HEAD——"`_
XV.—`HUNT THE SLIPPER`_
XVI.—`DIPLOMACY`_
XVII.—`A FRIEND IN NEED`_
XVIII.—`A DEFENSIVE ALLIANCE`_
XIX.—`WHAT DID SHE MEAN?`_
XX.—`CHECK TO FROBISHER`_
XXI.—`DENVERS LEARNS SOMETHING`_
XXII.—`STRANDS OF THE ROPE`_
XXIII.—`A LUNCH AT THE BELGRAVE`_
XXIV.—`A WOMAN'S WAY`_
XXV.—`A STRIKING LIKENESS`_
XXVI.—`A BAD QUARTER OF AN HOUR`_
XXVII.—`MRS. BENSTEIN INTERVENES`_
XXVIII.—`NEMESIS`_
XXIX.—`THE TIGHTENED CORD`_

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.. _`FLOWERS OF BLOOD`:

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   THE CARDINAL MOTH

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   CHAPTER I.

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   FLOWERS OF BLOOD.

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The purple darkness seemed to be filled with
a nebulous suggestion of things beautiful;
long trails and ropes of blossoms hung like
stars reflected in a lake of blue.  As the eye grew
accustomed to the gloom these blooms seemed to
expand and beautify.  There was a great orange
globe floating on a violet mist, a patch of pink
swam against an opaque window-pane like a
flight of butterflies.  Outside the throaty roar of
Piccadilly could be distinctly heard; inside was
misty silence and the coaxed and pampered
atmosphere of the Orient.  Then a long, slim
hand—a hand with jewels on it—was extended, and
the whole vast dome was bathed in brilliant light.

For once the electric globes had lost their
garish pertinacity.  There were scores of lamps
there, but every one of them was laced with
dripping flowers and foliage till their softness
was like that of a misty moon behind the
tree-tops.  And the blossoms hung
everywhere—thousands upon thousands of them, red, blue,
orange, creamy white, fantastic in shape and
variegated in hue, with a diabolical suggestiveness
about them that orchids alone possess.  Up
in the roof, out of a faint cloud of steam, other
blossoms of purple and azure peeped.

Complimented upon the amazing beauty of his
orchid-house, Sir Clement Frobisher cynically
remarked that the folly had cost him from first to
last over a hundred thousand pounds.  He passed
for a man with no single generous impulse or
feeling of emotion; a love of flowers was the
only weakness that Providence had vouchsafed
to him, and he held it cheap at the money.  You
could rob Sir Clement Frobisher or cheat him or
lie to him, and he would continue to ask you to
dinner, if you were a sufficiently amusing or
particularly rascally fellow, but if you casually
picked one of his priceless Cypripediums——!

He sat there in his bath of brilliant blossoms,
smoking a clay pipe and sipping some peculiarly
thin and aggressive Rhine wine from a long,
thin-stemmed Bohemian glass.  He had a fancy
for that atrocious grape juice and common ship's
tobacco from a reeking clay.  Otherwise he was
immaculate, and his velvet dinner-jacket was
probably the best-cut garment of its kind in
London.

A small man, just over fifty, with a dome-like
head absolutely devoid of hair, and shiny like
a billiard-ball, a ridiculously small nose suggestive
of the bill of a love-bird, a clean-shaven, humorous
mouth with a certain hard cruelty about it, a
figure slight, but enormously powerful.  For the
rest, Sir Clement was that rare bird amongst
high-born species—a man, poor originally, who
had become rich.  He was popularly supposed
to have been kicked out of the diplomatic service
after a brilliant operation connected with certain
Turkish Bonds.  The scandal was an old one, and
might have had no basis in fact, but the same
*Times* that conveyed to an interested public the
fact of Sir Clement Frobisher's retirement from
the *corps diplomatique*, announced that the
baronet in question had purchased the lease of
947, Piccadilly, for the sum of ninety-five thousand
pounds.  And for seven years Society refused
to admit the existence of anybody called Sir
Clement Frobisher.

But the man had his title, his family, and his
million or so well invested.  Also he had an
amazing audacity, and a moral courage beyond
belief.  Also he married a lady whose social claims
could not be contested.  Clement Frobisher went
back to the fold again at a great dinner given
at Yorkshire House.  There it was that Earl
Beauregard, a one-time chief of Frobisher's,
roundly declared that, take him all in all, Count
Whyzed was the most finished and abandoned
scoundrel in Europe.  Did not Frobisher think
so?  To which Frobisher replied that he
considered the decision to be a personal slight to
himself, who had worked so hard for that same
distinction.  Beauregard laughed, and the rest
of the party followed suit, and Frobisher did much
as he liked, ever after.

He was looking just a little bored now, and was
debating whether he should go to bed, though
it was not long after eleven o'clock, and that
in the creamy month of the London season.
Down below somewhere an electric bell was
purring impatiently.  The butler, an Armenian
with a fez on his black, sleek head, looked in and
inquired if Sir Clement would see anybody.

"If it's a typical acquaintance, certainly not,
Hafid," Frobisher said, sleepily.  "If it happens
to be one of my picturesque rascals, send all the
other servants to bed.  But it's sure to be some
commonplace, respectable caller."

Hafid bowed and withdrew.  Down below the
bell was purring again.  A door opened somewhere,
letting in the strident roar of the streets like a
dirge, then the din shut down again as if a lid
had been clapped on it.  From the dim shadow
of the hall a figure emerged bearing a long white
paper cone, handled with the care and attention
one would bestow on a sick child.

"Paul Lopez to see you," Hafid said.

"Lopez!" Frobisher cried.  "See how my
virtue is rewarded.  It is the return for all the
boredom I have endured lately.  Respectability
reeks in my nostrils.  I have been longing for a
scoundrel—not necessarily a star of the first
magnitude, a rival to myself.  Ho, ho, Lopez!"

The newcomer nodded and smiled.  A small,
dark man with restless eyes, and hands that
were never still.  There was something catlike,
sinuous, about him, and in those restless eyes a
look of profound, placid, monumental contempt
for Frobisher.

"You did not expect to see me?" he said.

"No," Frobisher chuckled.  "I began to fear
that you had been hanged, friend Paul.  Do you
recollect the last time we were together?  It
was——"

The voice trailed off with a muttered suggestion
of wickedness beyond words.  Frobisher lay back
in his chair with the tangled ropes of blossoms
about his sleek head; a great purple orchid with a
living orange eye broke from the cluster and hung
as if listening.  Lopez looked round the bewildering
beauty of it all with an artistic respect for his
surroundings.

"The devil has looked after his dear friend
carefully," he said, with the same calm contempt.
Frobisher indicated it all with a comprehensive
hand.  "Now you are jealous," he said.  "Hafid,
the other servants are gone to bed?  Good!  Then
you may sit in the library till I require you.
What have you got there, Paul?"

"I have a flower, an orchid.  It is at your
disposal, at a price."

"At a price, of course.  What are you asking for it?"

Paul Lopez made no reply.  He proceeded to
remove the paper from the long cone, and disclosed
a lank, withered-looking stem with faded buds
apparently hanging thereto by attenuated threads.
It might have been nothing better than a dead
clematis thrown by a gardener on the dust-heap.
The root, or what passed for it, was simply
attached to a slap of virgin cork by a couple of
rusty nails.  Frobisher watched Lopez with half-closed eyes.

"Of course, I am going to be disappointed," he
said.  "How often have I gone hunting the eagle
and found it to be a tit?  The rare sensation of a
new blossom has been denied me for years.  Is it
possible that my pets are going to have a new and
lovely sister?"

He caressed the purple bloom over his head
tenderly.  Lopez drew from his pocket a great
tangle of Manilla rope, yards of it, which he
proceeded to loop along one side of the
orchid-house.  Upon this he twisted his faded stem,
drawing it out until, with the dusty laterals, there
were some forty feet of it.

"Where is your steam-pipe?" he asked.

Frobisher indicated the steam-cock languidly.
Ever and again the nozzle worked automatically,
half filling the orchid-house with the grateful
steam which was as life to the gorgeous flowers.
Lopez turned the cock full on; there was a hiss, a
white cloud that fairly enveloped his recent work.

"Now you shall see what you shall see," he
said in his calm, cool voice.  "Oh, my friend, you
will be with your arms about my neck presently!"

Already the masses of flowers were glistening
with moisture.  It filled up the strands of the loose
Manilla rope, and drew it up tight as a fiddle-string.
Through the dim cloud Frobisher could see the
dry stalks literally bursting into life.

"Aaron's rod," murmured Frobisher.  "Do you
know that for Aaron's rod, properly verified, and
in good working order, I would give quite a lot of
money?"

"You would cut it up for firewood to possess
what I shall show you presently," said Lopez.
"See here."

He turned off the steam-cock and the thin,
vapoury cloud rapidly dispelled.  And then behold
a miracle!  The twisted, withered stalk was a
shining, joyous green, from it burst a long glistening
cluster of great white flowers, pink fringed, and
with just a touch of the deep green sea in them.
They ran along the stem like the foam on a summer
beach.  And from them, suspended on stems so
slender as to be practically invisible to the eye,
was a perfect fluttering cloud of smaller blossoms
of the deepest cardinal red.  Even in that still
atmosphere they floated and trembled for all the
world like a palpitating cloud of butterflies
hovering over a cluster of lilies.  Anything more chaste,
more weird, and at the same time more bewilderingly
beautiful, it would be impossible to imagine.

Frobisher jumped to his feet with a hoarse cry
of delight.  Little beads of perspiration stood on
his sleek head.  The man was quivering from head
to foot with intense excitement.  With hesitating
forefinger he touched the taut Manilla rope and
it hummed like a harp-string, each strand drawn
rigid with the moisture.  And all the moths there
leapt with a new, hovering life.

"The Cardinal Moth," Frobisher said hoarsely.
"Hafid, it is the Cardinal Moth!"

Hafid came, from the darkness of the study with
a cry something like Frobisher's, but it was a cry
of terror.  His brown face had turned to a ghastly,
decayed green, those lovely flowers might have
been a nest of cobras from the terror of his eye.

"Chop it up, destroy it, burn it!" he yelled.
"Put it in the fire and scatter the ashes to the
four winds.  Trample on it, master; crush the
flower to pieces.  He is mad, he has forgotten
that dreadful night in Stamboul!"

"Would you mind taking that tankard of iced
water and pouring it over Hafid's head?" said
Frobisher.  "You silly, superstitious fool!  The
Stamboul affair was a mere coincidence.  And so
there was another Cardinal Moth besides my
unfortunate plant all the time!  Oh, the beauty,
the gem, the auk amongst orchids!  Where, where
did you get it from?"

"It came from quite a small collection near London."

"The greedy ruffian!  Fancy the man having a
Cardinal Moth and keeping it to himself like that!
The one I lost was a mere weed compared to this.
Name your price, Paul, and if it is too high, Hafid
and I will murder you between us and swear that
you were a burglar shot in self-defence."

Lopez laughed noiselessly—a strange, unpleasant laugh.

"You would do it without the slightest
hesitation," he said.  "But the orchid is quite
safe with you, seeing that the owner is dead, and
that his secret was all his own.  And the price is a
small one."

"Ah, you are modest, friend Paul!  Name it."

"You are merely to tell a lie and to stick to it.
I am in trouble, in danger.  And I hold that
hanging is the worst use you can put a man to.
If anything happens, I came here last night at
ten o'clock.  I stayed till nearly midnight.  Hafid
must remember the circumstances also."

"Hafid," Frobisher said slowly, "will forget
or remember anything that I ask him to."

Hafid nodded with his eyes still fixed in
fascinated horror on the palpitating, quivering,
crimson floating over its bed of snow.  He heard
and understood, but only by instinct.

"I was at home all the evening, and her ladyship
is away," said Frobisher.  "I was expecting a
mere commonplace rascal—not an artist like
yourself, Paul—and the others had gone to bed.
And you were here for the time you said.  Is not
that so, Hafid?"

"Oh, by the soul of my father, yes!" Hafid
said in a frozen voice.  "Take it and burn it, and
scatter it.  What my lord says is the truth.  Take
it and burn it, and scatter it."

"He'll be all right in the morning," Frobisher
said.  "Lopez, take the big steps and festoon that
lovely new daughter of mine across the roof.  You
can fasten it to those hooks.  To-morrow I will
have an extra steam valve for her ladyship.  Let
me see—if she gets her bath of steam every night
regularly she will require no more.  Aphrodite,
beautiful, your bath shall be remembered."

He kissed his fingers gaily to the trembling
flowers now hooked across the roof.  Already the
loose Manilla rope was drying and hanging in
baggy folds that made a more artistic foil for the
quivering red moths.  It was only when the
steaming process was going on that the thin,
strong ropes drew it up humming and taut as
harp-strings.

"Ah, that is like a new planet in a blue sky!"
Frobisher cried.  "Lopez, I am obliged to you.
Come again when I am less excited and I will
suitably reward you.  To-night I am *tête montêe*—I
am not responsible for my actions.  And the
lie shall be told for you, a veritable *chef-d'oeuvre*
amongst lies.  Sit down, and the best shall not be
good enough for you."

"I must go," Lopez said in the same even tones.
"I have private business elsewhere.  I drink
nothing and I smoke nothing till business is
finished.  Good-night, prince of rascals, and fair
dreams to you."

Lopez passed leisurely into the black throat of
the library, Hafid following.  Frobisher nodded
and chuckled, not in the least displeased.  He had
not been so excited for years.  The sight of those
blossoms filled him with unspeakable pleasure.
For their sakes he would have committed murder
without the slightest hesitation.  He had eyes for
nothing else, ears deaf to everything.  He heeded
not the purr of the hall bell again, he was lost to
his surroundings until Hafid shook him soundly.

"Count Lefroy to see you, and Mr. Manfred,"
he said.  "I told them you were engaged, but
they said that perhaps——"

Frobisher dropped into his chair with the air
of a man satiated with a plethora of good things.

"Now what have I done to deserve all this
beatitude!" he cried.  "An unique find and a
brother collector to triumph over, to watch, to
prick with the needle of jealousy.  But stop, I
must worship alone to-night.  Say that I shall
particularly desire to see them at luncheon
to-morrow."





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.. _`ANGELA`:

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   CHAPTER II.


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   ANGELA.

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Frobisher sat the following morning in
the orchid-house chuckling to himself and
waiting the advent of his two guests to
luncheon.  Heaven alone could follow the twists
and turns of that cunning brain.  Frobisher was
working out one of his most brilliant schemes now.
He took infinite pains to obtain by underground
passages the things he might have obtained openly
and easily.  But there was the delight of puzzling
other people.

He looked up presently, conscious of a presence
beyond his own.  In the dark Frobisher could
always tell if anybody came into the room.  He
crooked his wicked head sideways with the air of
a connoisseur, and in sooth there was good cause
for his admiration.  Here was something equal at
least to his most beautiful and cherished orchids,
a tall, graceful girl with shining brown hair, and
eyes of the deepest, purest blue.  Her complexion
was like old ivory, and as pure, the nose a little
short, perhaps, but the sweet mouth was full of
strength and character.

"I came for the flowers that you promised me,
Sir Clement," she said.

"Call me uncle and you shall have the
conservatory," Frobisher grinned.  "I am your
uncle by marriage, you know, and your guardian
by law.  Angela, you are looking lovely.  With the
exception of a peasant woman I once met in
Marenna, you are the most beautiful creature I
ever saw."

Angela Lyne listened with absolute indifference.
She was accustomed to be studied like this by Sir
Clement Frobisher, whom she loathed and detested
from the bottom of her heart.  But Lady Frobisher
was her aunt, and Frobisher her guardian for the
next year, until she came of age, in fact.

"Give me the flowers," she said.  "I am late
as it is.  I have sent my things on, for I shall dine
with Lady Marchgrave after the concert, and come
home alone.  Hafid will let me in."

"Better take a latchkey," Frobisher suggested.
"There!  Let me pin them in for you.  I'll show
you an orchid when you have time to examine it
that will move even you to admiration.  But not
now; she is too superb a creature for passing
admiration.  Now I think you will do."

There was no question of Frobisher's taste or
his feeling for arranging flowers.  The blossoms
looked superb and yet so natural as they lay on
Angela's breast—white orchids shot with sulphur.
They were the theme of admiration an hour later
at Lady Marchgrave's charity concert; they
gleamed again on Angela's corsage as she sat in
the Grosvenor Square drawing-room at dinner.
Five-and-twenty people sat round the long table
with its shaded lights and feathery flowers.
There were distinguished guests present, for Lady
Marchgrave was by way of being intellectual, but
Angela had eyes for one man only.  He had come
a little late, and had slipped quietly into a chair
at the bottom of the table—a tall man with a
strong face, not exactly handsome, but full of
power.  The clean-shaven lips were very firm, but
when the newcomer smiled his face looked
singularly young and sweet.  Angela's dinner
partner followed her glance with his eyes.

"If it isn't that beast Denvers," he muttered.
"I thought he had been murdered in the wilds of
Armenia or some such desirable spot.  You ought
to be glad, Angela."

"I am glad, Mr. Arnott," Angela said coldly.
"Permit me to remind you again that I
particularly dislike being called by my Christian
name; at least, at present."

The little man with the hooked nose and the
shifting, moist eye, put down his champagne glass
savagely.  For some deep, mysterious reason,
Sir Clement favoured George Arnott's designs
upon Angela, and if nothing interfered he was
pretty sure to get his own way in the end.  At
present Angela was coldly disdainful; she little
dreamt of the power and cunning of the man she
was thwarting.  She turned her head away,
absently waiting for Lady Marchgrave's signal.
There was a flutter and rustle of silken and lace
draperies presently, and the chatter of high-bred
voices floating from the hall.  A good many people
had already assembled in the suite of rooms
beyond, for Lady Marchgrave's receptions were
popular as well as fashionable.  Angela wandered
on until she came to the balcony overlooking the
square.  She leant over thoughtfully—her mind
had gone back to such a night a year or so before.

"Mine is a crescent star to-night," a quiet
voice behind her said.  "I seemed to divine by
instinct where you were.  Angela, dear Angela,
it is good to be with you again."

The girl's face flushed, her blue eyes were full
of tenderness.  Most people called her cold, but
nobody could bring that accusation against her
now.  Her two hands went out to Harold Denvers,
and he held them both.  For a long while the
brown eyes looked into the heavenly blue ones.

"Still the same?" Denvers asked.  "Nobody
has taken what should be my place, Angela?"

"Nobody has taken it, and nobody is ever
likely to," Angela smiled.  "There is supposed to
be nothing between us; you refused to bind me,
and you did not write or give me your address, but
my heart is yours and you know it.  And if you
changed I should never believe in anything again."

"If I should change!  Dear heart, is it likely?
If you only knew what I felt when I caught sight
of you to-night.  My queen, my beautiful, white
queen!  If I could only claim you before all the
world!"

Angela bent her head back behind the screen
of a fluttering, silken curtain and kissed the speaker.
He held her in his arms just for one blissful moment.

"It seems just the same," he said, "as if the
clock had been put back a year, to that night
when Sir Clement found us out.  The son of the
man whom he had ruined and his rich and lovely
ward!  There was a dramatic scene for you!
But he only grinned in that diabolical way of his,
and shortly after that mission to Armenia was
offered to me.  I never guessed then who procured
it for me, but I know now as well as I know that
Sir Clement never intended me to come back."

"Harold!  Do you really mean to say that—that——"

"You hesitate, of course.  It is not a pretty
thing to say.  Life is cheap out there, and if I was
killed, what matter?  Let us talk of other and
more pleasant things."

"Of your travels and adventures, for instance.
Did you find any wonderful flowers, like you did,
for instance, in Borneo, Harold?  Where did you
get that lovely orchid from?"

A single blossom flamed on the silk lapel of
Denvers' coat—a whitish bloom with a cloud of
little flowers hovering over it like moths.  It was
the Cardinal Moth again.

"Unique, is it not?" Harold said.  "Thereby
hangs a strange, romantic tale which would take
too long to tell at present.  What would Sir
Clement give for it?"

"Let me have it before I go," asked Angela,
eagerly.  "I should like to show it to Sir Clement.
He has some wonderful flower that he wants me
to see, but I feel pretty sure that he has nothing
like that.  I shall decline to say where I got the
bloom from."

Denvers removed the exquisite bloom with its
nodding scarlet moths and dexterously attached
it to Angela's own orchids.  The thing might have
been growing there.

"It seems strange to see that bloom on your
innocent breast," Harold said.  "It makes me
feel quite creepy when I look at it.  If you only
knew the sin and misery and shame and crime
that surrounds the Cardinal Moth you would
hesitate to wear it."

Angela smiled; she did not possess the imaginative vein.

"You shall tell me that another time," she
said.  "Meanwhile you seem to have dropped
from the clouds....  Are your plans more
promising for the future?"

"A little nebulous for the present," Denvers
admitted, "though the next expedition, which is
not connected with Sir Clement Frobisher,
promises well for the future.  There is a lot to be
done, however, and I am likely to be in London
for the next three weeks or so.  And you?"

"We are here for the season, of course.  My
aunt is staying at Chaffers Court till Friday, hence
the fact that I am here alone.  If you are very
good you shall take me as far as Piccadilly in
a taxi.  I must see a good deal of you, Hal, for
I have been very lonely."

There was a pathetic little droop in Angela's
voice.  Harold drew her a little closer.

"I wish I could take you out of it, darling," he
said.  "For your sake, we must try and make the
next venture a success.  If we can only start the
company fairly, I shall be able to reckon on a
thousand a year.  Do you think you could manage
on that, Angela?"

"Yes, or on a great deal less," Angela smiled.
"I could be happy with you anywhere.  And you
must not forget that I shall have a large fortune
of my own some day."

Other people were drifting towards the cool air
of the balcony now, George Arnott amongst the
number.  It was getting late, and Angela was
tired.  She whispered Harold to procure her a
cab, and that she would say good-night to Lady
Marchgrave and join him presently.  The cab
came, and so did the lights of Piccadilly all too
soon.  Denvers lingered on the steps just for a
moment.  He was going down to a big country
house on Saturday for the week-end.  Would
Angela come if he could procure her an invitation?
Angela's eyes replied for her.  She was in the house
at length by the aid of her latchkey.  The
dining-room door opened for a moment; there was a rattle
of conversation and the smell of Egyptian
cigarettes.  Evidently Sir Clement was giving one of
his famous impromptu dinner-parties.  Angela took
the spray of orchids from her breast and passed
hurriedly in the direction of the orchid-house.  The
bloom would keep best there, she thought.

As she passed along the corridor the figure of a
man preceded her.  The stranger crept along,
looking furtively to the right and the left.  From
his every gesture he was doing wrong here.  Then
he darted for the orchid-house and Angela
followed directly she had recovered herself.  She
would corner the man in the conservatory and
demand his business.  In the conservatory Angela
looked about her.  The man had vanished.

He had utterly gone—he was nowhere to be seen.
Angela rubbed her eyes in amazement.  There was
no other way out of the conservatory.  She stood
therewith the Cardinal Moth in her hand, aware now
that she was looking into the scared face of Hafid.

"Take it and burn it, and destroy it," he said
in a dazed kind of way.  "Take it and burn it at
once.  Dear lady, will you go to bed?  Take it
and burn it—my head is all hot and confused.
Dear lady, do not stay here, the place is accursed.
By the Prophet, I wish I had never been born."





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`CROSSED SWORDS`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER III.


.. class:: center medium bold

   CROSSED SWORDS.

.. vspace:: 2

Hafid came into the library and pulled to the
big bronze gates of the orchid-house like
the portals of a floral paradise.  There were
flowers here: stephanotis climbing round the
carved mantel, ropes of orchids dangling from the
electroliers, in one corner a mass of maiden-hair
fern draped the wall.  Even the pictures in their
Florentine frames were roped with blossoms.

Frobisher glanced beyond the carved and
twisted gates with a peculiar smile after Angela
had departed.  His luncheon guests were late.  He
looked more like a mischievous bird than usual.
There was an air of pleased anticipation about him
as of a man who is going to witness a brilliant
comedy.

There came to him a tall man with a heavy
moustache and an unmistakable military swagger.
If Frobisher resembled a parrot, Lefroy was most
unmistakably a hawk.  He passed in society
generally as a cavalry officer high in favour of his
Majesty the Shan of Ganistan; more than one
brilliant expedition against the hill-tribes had been
led by him.  But some of the hill-men could have
told another tale.

"Well, Lefroy," Frobisher exclaimed, genially.
"This is a pleasure, a greater pleasure than you
are aware of.  Mr. Manfred, take a seat."

Lefroy's secretary bowed and sank into a deep
chair.  His face was absolutely devoid of emotion,
a blank wall of whiteness with two eyes as
expressionless as shuttered windows.  Most people
were disposed to regard Manfred as an absolute
fool.  The hill-men at the back of Ganistan
muttered in their beards that he was, if possible,
worse than his master.

Lefroy reached for a cigar, lighted it, and
looked around him.  The white-faced Manfred
seemed to have lapsed into a kind of waking sleep.
A more utter indifference to his surroundings it
would be hard to imagine.  Yet he was a kind of
intellectual camera.  He had never been in
Frobisher's library before.  But a year hence he
could have entered it in the dark and found his way
to any part of the room with absolute certainty.

"I came to see you over that central Koordstan
Railway business," Lefroy said.

"Precisely," Frobisher smiled.  "I might have
guessed it.  As an Englishman—though you have
so picturesque a name—you are anxious that
England should receive the concessions.  In fact,
you have already promised it to our Government."

Lefroy made a motion as who should move a
piece on a chess-board.

"That is one to you," he said.  "Yes, you are
quite right.  Whereas you?"

"Whereas I am interested on behalf of the
Russian Government.  I tried our people here
two years ago, but they refused to have anything
to do with me."

"Refused to trust you, in point of fact."

Frobisher laughed noiselessly.  The wrinkled
cunning of his face and the noble expanse of his
forehead looked strange together.

"Quite right," he said.  "They refused to trust
me.  Any man who knows my record would be a
fool to do so.  But in that instance I was perfectly
loyal, because it was my interest to be so.  Still
I bowed with chastened resignation and—immediately
offered my services to Russia.  Then
you slipped in and spoilt my little game."

"There is half a million hanging to the thing,
my dear fellow."

"Well, well!  But you have not won yet.  You
can do nothing till you have won the Shan of
Koordstan to your side.  Whichever way he
throws his influence the concession goes.  And He
of Koordstan and myself are very friendly.  He
dines here to-night."

Lefroy started slightly.  He glanced at Frobisher
keenly under his shaggy brows.  The latter lay
back smoking his filthy clay with dreamy ecstasy.

"Yes," he went on, "He dines here to-night
to see my orchids.  My dear fellow, if you and
Manfred will join us, I shall be delighted."

Lefroy muttered something that sounded like
acceptance.  Manfred came out of his waking
dream, nodded, and slipped back into conscious
unconsciousness again.

"That picturesque and slightly drunken young
rascal has a passion for orchids," said Frobisher.
"It is the one redeeming point in his character.
But you know that, of course.  You haven't
forgotten the great coup so nearly made with the
Cardinal Moth."

"The plant that was burnt at Ochiri," Lefroy
said uneasily.

"The same.  What a wax the old man was in,
to be sure!  Ah, my dear Lefroy, we shall never,
never see a Cardinal Moth again!"

"If I could," Lefroy said hoarsely.  "Your
chances with the Shan of Koordstan wouldn't be
worth a rap.  With that orchid I could buy the
man body and soul.  And the plant that was
stolen from us at Turin is dead long ago.  It must
be, such a find as that couldn't possibly have been
kept quiet."

"I'll bet you a thousand pounds that orchid
is alive," Frobisher said dryly.

Lefroy sat up straight as a ramrod.  The waxed
ends of his big moustache quivered.  He turned to
Manfred, anxiety, anger, passion, blazing like a
brief torch in his eyes.  Manfred seemed to divine
rather than know that he was under that black
battery, and shook his head.

"I fail to see the point of the joke," Lefroy said.

Frobisher signed to Hafid to throw back the
gates.  Lefroy was on his feet by this time.  He
breathed like one who has run fast and far.
Manfred followed him with the air of a man who is
utterly without hope or expectation.

"There!" Frobisher cried with a flourish of
his hand.  "What is that you see beyond the third
tier of ropes?  Ah, my beauty, here comes another
lover for you!"

Lefroy's black eyes were turned up towards the
high dome of the orchid-house.  Other tangled
ropes and loops of blossoms met his gaze and held
it as he glanced in the direction indicated by
Frobisher.  And there, high up above them all
he could see the long, foamy, pink mass of blooms
with the red moths dancing and hovering about
them like things of life.

"The Cardinal Moth," he screamed.  "Manfred,
Manfred, curse you!"

He wheeled suddenly round in a whirl of
delirious passion, and struck Manfred a violent
blow in the mouth.  The secretary staggered back,
a thin stream of blood spurted from his split lip.
But he said nothing, manifested no feeling or
emotion of any kind.  With a handkerchief he
staunched the flow with the automatic action of a
marionette.

"The Cardinal Moth," Frobisher said as genially
as if nothing had happened.  "The gem has but
recently come into my possession.  It will be a
pleasant surprise for our friend the Shan to-night."

Just for an instant it looked as if Lefroy were
about to transfer his spleen from Manfred to his
host.  But Frobisher had been told enough already.
The cowardly blow said as plainly as words could
speak that Frobisher had obtained the very
treasure that Lefroy was after.  He imagined that
his secretary had played him false.  And,
moreover, he knew that Frobisher knew this.

"You've got it," he said.  He seemed to have a
difficulty in swallowing something.  "But you
could not bring yourself to part with it.  You
couldn't do it."

"My good Lefroy, every man has his price,
even you and I.  My beloved Moth may not be a
very good trap, but I shall find it a wonderfully
efficient bait."

"I dare say," Lefroy returned moodily.  "Can
I examine the flower closer?"

"Certainly.  Hafid, bring the extending steps
this way.  Be careful of those ropes and tangles.
An active man like you could climb up the stays
and bracket to the roof."

Lefroy was a long time examining the flower.
He was torn by envy and admiration.  When he
came down again his face was pale and his hands
trembled.

"The real thing," he said, "the real, palpitating,
beautiful thing.  But there is blood upon it."

"Born in blood and watered with the stream
of life.  No, I am not going to tell you where I
got it from.  And now, my dear Lefroy, what will
you take for your Koordstan concessions?"

Lefroy said nothing, but there was a gleam
in his downcast eyes.  Then presently he broke
into a laugh that jarred on the decorous silence
of the place.

"The game is yours," he said.  "White to
play and mate in three moves.  Still there may be
a way out.  And, on the other hand, you must be
very sure of your game to show me that.  Lord,
I'd give twopence to have you alone in a dark
corner!"

He rose abruptly, turned on his heel, and made
for the door, followed by the white automaton
with the bleeding lip.  He could hear Frobisher's
diabolical chuckle as the big bronze gates closed
behind him.  It was perhaps the most silent meal
ever partaken of at Frobisher's.  He was glad at
length to see the last of his luncheon guests.

Once in the streets Lefroy's manner changed.
He looked uneasy and downcast.

"I'm sorry I hit you, Manfred," he said.  "But
when I caught sight of that infernal plant I felt
sure that you had sold me.  But even you couldn't
have carried the thing off quite so coolly as that.
And yet—and yet there can't be two Cardinal
Moths in existence."

"There are not," Manfred said impatiently.
"That is the same one I hoped to have had in my
possession to-night.  Didn't Frobisher say it had
recently fallen into his hands?"

"I recollect that now.  Manfred, I'm done.
And yet I regarded it as a certainty."

"You were a great fool to strike me just now,"
said Manfred, thoughtfully, and without
resentment.  "Why?  Because the blow told Frobisher
that he had gained possession of the very thing
you were after.  It was as good as telling him that
you thought I had betrayed you.  To-night when
the Shan dines——"

Lefroy grasped Manfred's arm with crushing force.

"He isn't going to dine with Frobisher
to-night," he whispered.  "We shall dine there,
but his Majesty will be unfortunately detained
owing to sudden indisposition.  In other words,
he will be too drunk to leave his hotel.  Let's go
into your lodgings and have a brandy and soda.
I've got a plan ready.  There is just a chance yet
that I may succeed."

Manfred let himself into a house just off Brook
Street.  In a modest room upstairs, a box of
cigars, some spirits, together with a silver jug of
water, and a box of sparklets were put out.  On
the round table lay an early edition of an evening
paper that Manfred opened somewhat eagerly for
him.  He glanced over a late advertisement in the
personal column and shook his head.

"It is as I thought," he said.  "See here.
'The butterflies have gone away and cannot be
found.  My poor friend has broken his neck and
I have gone on a journey'—That is addressed to
me, Lefroy.  It is a message from my man that
somebody has stolen the Cardinal Moth, and that
my man's confederate has met with a fatal
accident.  Also it seems likely that there will be
a fuss over the business, so that my correspondent
has gone somewhere out of the way.  We will
look for some account of the tragedy presently;
it is sure to be in this paper.  Now tell me what
you propose to do."

Lefroy poured a brandy and soda down his
throat without a single movement of his larynx.

"I'm in a devil of a mess," he said frankly.  "I
made certain of getting the Cardinal Moth."

"So did I.  But that is a detail.  Go on."

"I wanted money badly.  The concession
seemed to be as good as mine.  With the Moth as
a bribe for the Shan it would have been all
Lombard Street to a green gooseberry.  So I
lodged the charter with a notorious money-lending
Jew in Fenchurch Street, and got twenty
thousand pounds on account."

"My dear Lefroy, you hadn't got the concession
to lodge!"

"No, but I had the man's letters, and I had the
draft contract.  So I forged the Charter, hoping
to exchange it for a more broad and liberal one
later on, and there you are!"

"And where will you be if you stay in the
country forty-eight hours longer?"

"I understand," Lefroy said grimly.  "But
there is a chance yet.  The Shan does not go to
Frobisher's dinner this evening and we do.  You
are suddenly indisposed and sit out.  At a given
signal I make a diversion.  Then you hurry into
that orchid-house and steal the flower."

"The thing is absolutely impossible, my dear fellow!"

"Not at all.  There is a much smaller Moth
growing side by side with the larger one.  I found
that out to-night.  You have only to snap off a
small piece of cork and unwind the stems.  Then
you hurry off to my place with it and put it
amongst my orchids.  The old man does not
expect anything beyond a small plant; those we
had before were babies compared to the one
yonder.  Then we get the Shan round the next
day and give him the vegetable.  I shall have the
concession ready.  And it's any money Frobisher
never knows how he has been done."

"I'll make the attempt if you like," Manfred
said without emotion.  "We can discuss the
details in the morning.  And now let me see what
happened to my man.  There is sure to be an
account in this paper."

Manfred came upon it at length:

"Mysterious Occurrence in Streatham.

"Yesterday evening Thomas Silverthorne,
caretaker at Lennox Nursery, Streatham, was aroused
by hearing a noise in the greenhouse attached to
the house.  Silverthorne had not gone to bed;
indeed, only a few hours before his employer had
died, leaving him alone in the house.  On entering
the greenhouse the caretaker discovered the body
of a man lying on the floor quite dead.
Silverthorne thinks that it was the dull thud of
the body that aroused him.  Some plants in the
roof had been pulled down—rare orchids, according
to Silverthorne, who, however, is no gardener—but
there was no means to show how the
unfortunate man got there, as there is no exit
from the greenhouse to the garden.  The man was
quite dead, and subsequent medical examination
showed that he had been strangled by a coarse
cloth twisted tightly round his throat; indeed, the
marks on the hempen-cloth were plainly to be
seen.  An inquest will be held to-morrow."

"Well, what do you think of it?" Lefroy asked.

Manfred pitched the paper aside in a sudden
flame of unreasoning passion.

"Accursed thing!" he cried.  "It is the curse
that follows the pursuit of the Cardinal Moth.
It is ever the same, always blood, blood.  If I had
my way——"

"Drop it," Lefroy said sternly.  "Remember
what you have got to do."

Manfred grew suddenly hard and wooden again.

"I have passed my word," he said.  "And it
shall be done, though I would rather burn my
hand off first."





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`A DUSKY POTENTATE`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER IV.


.. class:: center medium bold

   A DUSKY POTENTATE.

.. vspace:: 2

A very late breakfast, past two o'clock, in
fact, was laid out in one of the private
sitting-rooms of Gardner's hotel that
self-same afternoon.  Gardner's only catered for
foreign princes and ambassadors and people of
that kind, the place was filled with a decorous
silence, the servants in their quiet liveries gave
a suggestion of a funeral of some distinguished
personage, and that the body had not long left
the premises.  But despite the fact, some queer
people patronised Gardner's from time to time, and
His Highness the Shan of Koordstan was not the
least brilliant in that line.

It was nearer three when he pushed his plate
away and signified to the servant that he had
finished his breakfast.  A morsel of toast and
caviare assisted by a glass of brandy and
soda-water is not a meal suggestive of abstemious
habits, and, indeed, the Shan of Koordstan by no
means erred in that direction.

He looked older than his years, and had it not
been for his dusky complexion and yellow eyes,
might have passed for a European of swarthy
type.  His features were quite regular and fairly
handsome; he was dressed in the most correct
Bond Street fashion, the cigarette he held between
his shaky fingers might have come from any
first-class club.

"I've got a devil of a head," he said, as the
servant softly crept away with the tray.  "I shall
have to drop that old Cambridge set.  I can't stand
their ways.  If anybody comes I am out, at least
out to everybody besides Mr. Harold Denvers;
you understand."

The servant bowed and retired.  He came back
presently with a card on a salver, and he of
Koordstan gave a careless nod of assent.  The
next moment Harold Denvers came into the room.
He sniffed at the mingled odour of brandy and
cigarette smoke, and smiled.  Koordstan was
watching him with those eyes that never rested.
Their side gleam and the hard set of the grinning
mouth showed that a tiger was concealed there
under a thin veneer of Western civilisation.

"You've got back again, Denvers," he said.
"'Pon my word, you're devilish lucky.  They had
quite meant to put you out of the way this time."

"Your Highness is alluding to Sir Clement
Frobisher, of course," Harold said.

Koordstan crossed over to an alcove and pushed
the curtain back.  Beyond was a small
conservatory filled with choice orchids.  They were
a passion with him as with Frobisher.  One of
his chief reasons for coming to Gardner's was
because it was possible to fill the small
conservatory with a selection of his favourites.
The atmosphere was damp and oppressive, but
the Shan seemed to revel in it.

"That's about the size of it," he said.
"Frobisher found out that you were *épris* of his
lovely ward, and he had other views for her.  The
young lady has a will of her own, I understand."

"If you could see your way," Harold murmured,
"to leave Miss Lyne out of the discussion——"

"My dear chap, I have not the slightest
intention of erring against good taste.  I like you,
and out of all the men I come in contact with, you
are the only honest man of the lot.  Now I have
stated why you were to be got out of the way I can
proceed.  Can't you see that there is somebody
else who is your mortal enemy besides Frobisher?"

"I cannot call any one particularly to mind at present."

"Oh, you are blind!" Koordstan cried.  "What
about George Arnott?  Now I know that, like a
great many people, you regard Arnott as a fool.
He has the laugh of a jackass, with the silly face of
a cow.  But behind the mooncalf countenance of
his and that watery eye is a fine brain, and no
heart or conscience.  He and Frobisher are hand
in glove together: they have some fine scheme
afloat.  And the price of Arnott's alliance is the
hand of a certain lady, who shall be nameless."

"Do you mean that Arnott, when I went out
to Armenia, actually——"

"Actually!  Yes, that is the word.  I shall be
able to prove it when the time comes.  And now
you have come about those concessions that I was
to consider with a view——"

"Begging your pardon—the concessions which
your Highness has promised to my company."

"Drop that polite rot, old chap," Koordstan
said, with engaging frankness.  "You speak like
that, but you regard me as a sorry ass who is
building his own grave with empty brandy bottles.
*Entre nous*, I did promise you those concessions,
but you can't have them."

Harold knew his man too well to rage and storm
or show his anger.  He had counted on this matter.
He had seen his way through dangers and perils
of the fertile valleys of Koordstan and a fortune
and perhaps fame behind.  The hard grin on the
face of the Shan relaxed a little.

"I'll tell you how it is," he said.  "You know
a lot about my people and what a superstitious
gang they are.  And you have heard the history
of the Blue Stone of Ghan.  As a matter of fact
it's a precious big ruby, and is a talisman that every
Shan of Koordstan is never supposed to be without.
Now if I sold that stone or gave it away, what
would happen to me when I got home?"

"They would tear you to pieces and burn your
body afterwards."

"Precisely.  Now that is a pretty way to treat
a gentleman who merely has the misfortune to be
hard up.  And I have been most infernally hard
up lately, owing to my unlucky speculations and
those tribe troubles.  Can't get in the taxes, you
know.  So the long and short of it is, that I
pledged the Blue Stone."

Harold started.  The statement did not convey
much to the Western ears generally, but Denvers
realised the true state of the case.  The Shan was
not a popular monarch; he was too European
and absentee for that, and if the fact came out the
priests would ruin him.

"That was a most reckless thing to do," Harold said.

"It was acting the goat, wasn't it?" Koordstan
said carelessly, as he pared his long nails.  "There
was a new orchid or something that I had to buy.
Sooner or later I shall recover the Blue Stone.
But unfortunately for you, Lefroy and his set are
after those concessions, and in some way Lefroy
has discovered that the precious old jewel is no
longer in my possession."

"So that is the way in which he is putting the
pressure on you?"

"That's it," the Shan said with a dangerous
gleam in his eyes.  "Mind you, he is too good a
diplomat to say out and out that he has made that
important discovery.  The Blue Stone is engraved
on one side, and that side is used as a seal for
sealing important state documents.  Lefroy is
desolate, but his people will do nothing until they
get from me a wax impression of the seal; he told
me that here.  And he smiled.  It was very near
to the last time he smiled at anybody.  If we had
not been in London!"

Koordstan checked himself and paced up and
down the small conservatory as like a caged tiger
as a human being could be.

"Your answer to that was easy," Harold said.
"You might have declined on the grounds that
it would have been too easy to forge a die from that
waxen impression."

"Good Lord, and I never thought of it!"
Koordstan cried.  "By Jove, that opens up a fine
field for me!  But it will take time.  In the
meantime a smiling face and a few of those
previous subterfuges that men for want of a better
name call diplomacy.  You shall have your
concessions yet."

Harold muttered something that might have
been thanks, but he had his doubts.  The Shan was
favourably disposed towards him, but he would
not have trusted the latter a yard so far as money
was concerned.  But there was another and better
card yet to play.

"I have not forgotten your promise," he said.
"When I showed you the Cardinal Moth."

"Afterwards subsequently destroyed.  Ah, that
we shall never see again.  If you could give me
that, you could make any terms with me.  By
heaven, I would have all Koordstan back at my
feet if I could show them the 'Moth'!  Denvers,
you don't mean to say that you have come here
with the information——"

He paused as if breath had suddenly failed him.
The yellow face was quite ashy.

"Indeed I have," Harold said quietly.  "That
was one of the reasons why I came home.  I got
scent of the thing on the far side of the Ural
mountains.  My adventures would fill a big book.
But I came home with the 'Moth' packed up in
a quarter-pound tin of navy cut tobacco."

"You have kept this entirely to yourself?"
the Shan asked hoarsely.

"Well, rather.  I meant to have brought you a
bloom as a guarantee of good faith.  The plant is at
present hidden away in the obscure conservatory at
a nursery in the suburbs.  If you would like——"

Harold paused as a soft-footed servant came
in with a card on a tray.  The Shan glanced at it
and grinned.

"Tell him to come again in half an hour," he said.
"Denvers, you had better depart by the Green
Street door; it's Lefroy, and it would be as well for
him not to know that you had been here.  Go on."

"If you would like to see the 'Moth' I can
make arrangements for you to do so.  Only not
one word of this to anybody.  We can steal away
down to Streatham and——"

Koordstan bounced to his feet, anger and
disappointment lived on his face.

"Streatham, did you say!" he cried.  "There
seems to be witchery about the business.  Don't
tell me that you left the plant in care of a man
called——"

The Shan grabbed for an early edition of an
evening paper which fluttered in his hand like a
leaf in a breeze.  He found what he wanted
presently and began to read half aloud.

"Yesterday evening Thomas Silverthorne,
caretaker at the Lennox Nursery, Streatham——  Look
here, Denvers, read it for yourself.  At the
Lennox nursery a man was found dead, murdered
by having a rope placed round his neck, and held
there till he was strangled.  Silverthorne says there
was a rare orchid or two in the house, and that one
of them had been pulled down and probably
stolen.  Now if you tell me that your 'Moth' was
placed there, I shall want to murder you."

Harold rose, his face was disturbed and uneasy.

"It is as you imagine," he said.  "I did place
the 'Moth' there the night before last.  And I
would have taken my oath that nobody knew
that the plant was in England, I'll go to Streatham
at once; I'll get to the bottom of this strange
mystery."

"Count Lefroy is sorry," murmured the
soft-footed servant, as he looked in, "but he
hopes your Highness will see him now as he can
wait no longer."





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`AN INTERRUPTED FEAST`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER V.


.. class:: center medium bold

   AN INTERRUPTED FEAST.

.. vspace:: 2

To Frobisher's *pêtit dîner* the same evening of
that eventful day ostensibly to meet the
Shan of Koordstan, Lefroy came large
and flamboyant, with a vivid riband across his
dazzling expanse of shirt and a jewelled collar
under his tie.  There was an extra gloss on his
black moustache, his swagger was a little more
pronounced than usual.  He looked like what he
was—a strong man weighed down by not too
many scruples.

There were less than a dozen men altogether, a
couple of well-known members of the Travellers',
a popular K.C., and a keen, hatchet-faced judge
with a quiet manner and a marvellous faculty for
telling dialect stories.  The inevitable politician
and fashionable doctor completed the party.  As
Lefroy and his secretary entered the drawing-room
most of the men were admiring a portfolio of
Morland's drawings that Frobisher had picked
up lately.

Hafid stepped noiselessly across the floor with
a telegram on a salver.  Frobisher read it without
the slightest sign of annoyance.

"The Shan is not coming," he said.
"Koordstan is indisposed."

"So I gathered when I called professionally this
afternoon," Dr. Brownsmith said dryly.

"Champagne," Frobisher laughed whole-heartedly.
"All right, Sir James.  I won't
question you too far.  So white is not going to
mate in three moves this evening, Lefroy?"

Lefroy shrugged his shoulders carelessly.  The
Shan of Koordstan was safe for the present.  He
had seen to that.  Manfred had dropped quietly
into a chair with just the suggestion of pain on his
face.  A smooth-voiced butler announced that
dinner was served.

"Where does Frobisher get his servants from,
Jessop?" Sir James Brownsmith asked the judge,
as the two strolled across the hall together.  "Now
there's a model of a butler for you.  His voice has
a flavour of old, nutty sherry about it.  By Jove,
what are those flowers?"

There were flowers everywhere, mostly arranged
by Frobisher himself.  In the centre was a rough
handful of green twigs bound together with a
silver cord, and the whole surmounted by a coil
of the pinky-white orchid with its fringe of
trembling red moths.

"Orchids," said the politician.  "Something
fresh, Frobisher?  What do you call it?"

"The specimen is not named at present,"
Lefroy said meaningly.

Frobisher glanced at the speaker and smiled.

"Lefroy is quite right," he said.  "The
specimen lacks a name.  It came in the first place
from Koordstan, and there were three spines of
the original plant.  It is a freak, there never was
anything like it before, and there will probably
never be one like it again.  That self-same orchid
was very near to being the price of a kingdom
once upon a time."

"Only it is unfortunately impossible to tell the
story," Lefroy remarked.

Once again Frobisher glanced at the speaker and
smiled.  Most of the guests by this time were busy
over their soup.  They were not the class of men
to waste valuable sentiment over flowers.  It was
only Frobisher who glanced from time to time
lovingly at the Cardinal Moth.  Manfred seemed
to avoid it altogether.  He sat at the table
eating nothing and obviously out of sorts with
his food.

"I've a bilious headache, Sir Clement," he
explained.  "The mere sight of food and smell of
cooking makes me sick to the soul.  Would you
mind if I sat in the drawing-room in the dark for a
little time?  I am confident that the attack will
pass off presently."

"Anything you please, my dear fellow,"
Frobisher cried hospitably.  "A strong cup of
tea!  A glass of champagne and a dry biscuit?
No?  If you ring the bell Hafid will attend to you."

Hafid salaamed as he dexterously caught a
meaning glance from Frobisher.  Lefroy brutally
proclaimed aloud that a good dinner was utterly
wasted upon Manfred.  Brownsmith with his
mouth full of aspic was understood to say
something anent the virtues of bromide.  So the
dinner proceeded with pink lakes of light on the
table, the flowers and the cut glass and quaint
silver.  And there were blossoms, blossoms
everywhere, thousands of them.  Frobisher might
have been a great scoundrel—that he was a man
of exquisite taste was beyond question.  The
elaborate dinner dragged smoothly along, two
hours passed, a silver chime proclaimed eleven
o'clock.

The cloth was drawn at length, as the host's
whim was, the decanters and glittering glass stood
on a brown glistening lake of polished oak, with
here and there a dash of fruit to give a more vivid
touch of colour.  Hafid handed round a silver
cigarette-box, a cedar cigar cabinette on wheels
was pushed along the table.  Over the shaded
electric lights a blue wrack of smoke hung.  The
silver chime struck twelve.

"Hafid; you have made Mr. Manfred
comfortable?" Frobisher asked.

Hafid replied that he had done all that a man
could do.  Mr. Manfred was reclining in the dark
near an open window.  All the other servants
but himself had retired.  The butler had seen
that everything necessary was laid out in the
smoking-room.

"Always send the servants to bed as soon as
possible," Frobisher explained.  "What with the
spread of modern journalism, I find it necessary.
You never know nowadays how far one's butler
is interested in the same stock that you are deeply
dipped in.  And a long-eared footman has changed
the course of diplomacy before now."

"If everybody pursued the same policy,
George," Baron Jessop murmured, "I and my
learned friends of the Bench would have more or
less of a sinecure."

"And Lord Saltaur, yonder would not have lost
a beautiful wife," Lefroy said loudly.

A sudden hush seemed to smite the table.  Lord
Saltaur whitened to his lips under his tan; his
long, lean hands gripped the edge of the table
passionately.  His own domestic scandal had been
so new, so painful, that the whole party stood
aghast at the brutality of the insult.

"Frobisher," Saltaur said, hoarsely.  "It is not
pleasant to be insulted by a blackguard——"

"What was that word?" Lefroy asked quite
sweetly.  "My hearing may be a trifle deficient,
but I fancied his lordship said something about a
blackguard."

Frobisher interfered as in duty bound.  As a
matter of fact he was enjoying the situation.
Lefroy had drunk deeply, but then he had seen
Lefroy's amazing prowess in that direction too
many times for any fears as to his ultimate
equilibrium.  No, Lefroy was playing some deep
game.  As yet only the first card had been laid
upon the table.

"I think that the apology lies with you, Count,"
Frobisher said tentatively.

"A mere jest," Lefroy said, airily.  "A *jeu
d'esprit*.  Lord Saltaur's wife."

"You hound!" Saltaur cried passionately.
"Whatever I have been, you might leave the
name of a pure woman out of your filthy
conversation.  If you don't apologise at once, I'll
thrust your words down your throat for you."

A contemptuous reply came from Lefroy.  There
was a flash of crystal and a glass shattered on the
Count's dark face, leaving a star-shaped wound on
his cheek.  A moment later and he and Saltaur
were struggling together like wild animals.
Frobisher had so far forgotten himself as to lean
back in his chair as if this were a mere exhibition
got up for his entertainment.

"Is this part of the evening's amusement, Sir
Clement?" the judge asked coldly.

Frobisher realised his responsibilities with a
sigh for his interrupted pleasure.  His civilisation
was the thinnest possible veneer, a shoddy thing
like Tottenham Court Road furniture.

"Come, you chaps must drop it," he cried.  "I
can't have you fighting over my Smyrna carpet.
Saltaur, you shall have your apology.  Lefroy, do
you hear me?"

Strong arms interfered, and the two men were
dragged apart.  Lefroy's teeth glistened in a
ghastly grin; there was a speck of blood on his
white shirt front.  Saltaur's laboured breathing
could be heard all over the room.

"I take you all to witness that it was no seeking
of mine," he cried.  "I was foully insulted.  In
a few days all the world will know that I have been
made the victim of a discharged servant's perjury.
Frobisher, I am still waiting for my apology."

Lefroy paused and passed his handkerchief
across his face.  He seemed to have wiped the
leering expression from it.  He looked a perfect
picture of puzzled bewilderment.

"What have I done?" he asked.  "What on
earth have I said?"

"Beautiful," Frobisher murmured.  "Artistic
to a fault.  What is he driving at?"

Baron Jessop explained clearly and judiciously.
He was glad to have an opportunity of doing so.
Viewing the thing dispassionately, he was bound
to say that Count Lefroy had been guilty of a
grave breach of good taste.  But he was quite
sure that under the circumstances——

"On my honour, I haven't the slightest
recollection of it," Lefroy cried.  "If there is one
lady of my acquaintance I honour and respect it
is Lady —— the charming woman whom Lord
Saltaur calls his wife.  A sudden fit of mental
aberration, my lord.  An old wound in the head
followed by a spell in the sunshine.  This is the
third time the thing has happened.  The last time
in Serbia nearly cost me my life.  My dear Saltaur,
I am sorry from the bottom of my heart."

"Funniest case I ever heard of," the puzzled
Saltaur murmured.  "All the same, I'm deuced
sorry I threw that wine glass at you."

"Oh, so you chucked a wine glass at me!
Laid my cheek open, too.  Well, I should have
done exactly the same thing under the same
circumstances.  From this night I touch nothing
stronger than claret.  If I'd stuck to that, this
wouldn't have happened."

The good-humoured Saltaur muttered something
in reply, the threads of the dropped conversation
were taken up again.  Hafid, who had watched
the sudden quarrel with Oriental indifference, had
gone off to the conservatory for hot water to bathe
Lefroy's damaged face.  There was just a lull for
a moment in the conversation, a sudden silence,
and then the smash of a crystal vessel on a tiled
floor and a strangled cry of terror from Hafid.
He came headlong into the room, his eyes starting,
his whole frame quivering with an ungovernable
terror.

"Mr. Manfred," he yelled.  "Lying on the floor
in the conservatory, dead.  Take it and burn it,
and destroy it.  Take it and burn it, and destroy
it.  Take it——"

Frobisher pounced upon the wailing speaker and
clutched him by the throat.  As the first hoarse
words came from Hafid the rest of the party had
rushed headlong into the orchid-house.  Frobisher
shook his servant like a reed is shaken by a storm.

"Silence, you fool!" he whispered.  "You
didn't kill the man, and I didn't kill the man.  If
he is dead he has not been murdered.  And it is
no fault of yours."

"Allah knows better," Hafid muttered, sulkily.
"You didn't kill him, and I didn't kill him, but
he is dead, and Allah will punish the guilty.  Take
it and burn it, and——"

"Idiot!  Son of a pig, be silent.  And mind,
you are to know nothing.  You went to get the
hot water from the orchid-house and saw
Mr. Manfred lying there.  As soon as you did so you
rushed in to tell us.  Now come along."

The limp body of Manfred had been partly
raised, and his head rested on Sir James
Brownsmith's knee.  The others stood waiting for
the verdict.

"The fellow is dead," the great doctor said.
"Murdered, I should say, undoubtedly.  He has
been strangled by a coarse cloth twisted about his
throat—precisely the same way as that poor
fellow was murdered at Streatham the night
before last."

A solemn silence fell upon the group.  Hafid
stood behind, his lips moving in silent speech:

"Take it and burn it, and destroy it.  Take it
and burn it, and destroy it, for there is blood upon
it now and ever."

The drama was none the less moving because
of its decorous silence.  The great surgeon knelt
on the white marble floor of the orchid-house with
Manfred's head on his knee.  Though Sir James
Brownsmith's hand was quite steady, his face was
white as his own hair, or the face of the dead man
staring dumbly up to the tangle of ropes and
blossoms overhead.  There the Cardinal Moth was
dancing and quivering as if exulting over the
crime.  A long trail of it had broken away, and
one tiny cloud of blossom danced near the surgeon's
ear, as if trying to tell him the tragedy and its story.

"A ghastly business," the judge murmured.
"How did the murderer get in here?"

"How did he get out?" Frobisher suggested.
"There is no exit from here at all.  All the servants
have been in bed long ago, and the front door is
generally secured, at least the latch is always down."

"But what brought poor Manfred in here?"
Saltaur asked.  "I understood from Hafid that he
was lying down in the drawing-room.  Oh, Hafid!
Wake up, man!"

"Take it and burn it, and destroy it," Hafid
said mechanically.

Frobisher shook him savagely, shook the dreamy
horror off him like a garment.  He was sorry, he
said, but he could tell the excellent company
nothing.  A quarter of an hour before and
Mr. Manfred had appeared to be asleep on the
drawing-room sofa.  Hafid had asked him if he
needed anything, and he had made no reply.

"Very strange," Sir James murmured, still
diagnosing the cruel stranded pattern about the
dead man's throat.  "Perhaps Count Lefroy—where
is the Count?"

"He went back into the dining-room," said Saltaur.

Frobisher brought his teeth together with a
click.  For the moment he had quite forgotten
Count Lefroy.  He passed from the library and
into the dining-room.  Lefroy stood by the great
shining table close against the fluttering pyramid
of red moths, a thin-bladed knife in his hands.

"And what might you be doing?" Frobisher asked softly.

Lefroy smiled somewhat bitterly.  He was
perfectly self-possessed with the grip of the man
who knows how to hold himself in hand.  And he
smiled none the less easily because there was
murder raging in his heart.

"I am cutting my nails," he said.

"Oh, I'll cut your claws for you!" Frobisher
said.  "Don't do that, what will your manicure
artist say?  And a social superiority (feminine)
tells me that you have the finest hand of any man
in London.  You are unhinged, my dear Count.
This little affair——"

"This cold-blooded murder you mean.  Oh,
you scoundrel!"

Lefroy had dropped the mask for a moment.
There was contempt, loathing, horror in the last
few words.  Frobisher, counting the nodding
swarm of crimson moths, merely smiled.

"Twenty-seven, thirty-one, thirty-nine," he
said.  "You haven't stolen any of my flowers yet.
Not a bad idea of yours to purloin a cluster, and
send it to our tin Solomon yonder, as an earnest
of good intentions later on.  And why do you call
me scoundrel?"

"You are the most infernal villain that ever
breathed."

"Well, perhaps I am.  It is very good of you
to admit my superior claims, dear Lefroy.  But
I am getting old, and you may live to take my
place some day.  Why——"

"Why did you kill Manfred?"

"My dear fellow, I didn't kill Manfred.  You
think he has been murdered in the ordinary sense
of the word.  Manfred has not been murdered, and
nobody will ever be hanged for the crime.  That
you may take my word for.  It is the vengeance of
the Crimson Moth, death by visitation of God; call
it what you will.  And it might have been yourself."

Frobisher's whole manner had changed, his eyes
were gleaming evilly as he hissed the last words
warningly in Lefroy's ear.  The latter changed
colour slightly.

"I don't understand what you mean," he stammered.

"And yet you are not usually slow at
understanding.  I repeat that it might have been
yourself.  If you had attempted the raid of the
Cardinal Moth, instead of Manfred, you would
have been lying at the present moment with your
head on Brownsmith's knees, and the mark of the
beast about your throat."

"And if I tell those fellows yonder what you say?"

"You are at liberty to say anything you please.
But you are not going to say anything, my dear
Lefroy; you are too fine a player for that.  You
are going to wait patiently for your next innings.
Come back to the others.  And perhaps I had
better lock this door."

Lefroy, like a wise man, accepted the inevitable.
But the rest of the party were no longer in the
orchid-house.  They had carried the dead man to
the back dining-room, where they had laid him
out on a couch.  Frobisher rang up the nearest
police-station on the telephone with the request
that an inspector should be sent for at once.

"By gad, this is a dreadful thing, don't you
know!" Saltaur said with a shudder.  "Fancy
that poor fellow being murdered whilst we were
wrangling in the dining-room.  I suppose there is
no doubt that it is murder, doctor?"

"Not the shadow of a doubt about it," Sir
James replied.  "Poor Manfred must have been
admiring the flowers when the assassin stepped
behind him and threw that coarse cloth over his
head.  A knee could be inserted on his spine, and
the head forced backwards.  The cloth must have
been twisted with tremendous force.  It is quite
a novel kind of murder for England."

"Oh, then you have heard of something of the
same kind before?" Frobisher asked.

"In India, frequently.  I had a chance to
examine more than one victim of Thugee, yonder.
You remember what a scourge Thugism used to be
in India some years ago.  A Thug killed Manfred,
I have not the slightest doubt about it."

"But there are no Thugs in England," the
judge protested.

"My dear fellow, I have had an unfortunate
demonstration to the contrary.  And this crime
is not necessarily the work of a native.  Thugee is
not dead in India yet, and some white scoundrel
might have learnt the trick.  Your own servant,
Hafid——"

"A robust bluebottle would make a formidable
antagonist for Hafid," Frobisher interrupted.
"Hafid, somebody is ringing the bell.  If it's a
policeman, ask him in."

Inspector Townsend came in, small, quiet, soft
of manner, and undoubtedly dressed in Bond
Street.  He listened gravely to all that Frobisher
and Brownsmith had to say, and then he asked
permission to view the body, and subsequently
examine the premises.

A close search of the house only served to deepen
the mystery.  All the servants slept on the top
floor, and that part of the house was bolted off
every night after the domestic staff had retired.
This was a whim of Sir Clement's, a whim likely
to increase his unpopularity in case of fire, but at
present that was a secondary consideration.  There
was no exit from the orchid-house, no windows
had been left open, and despite the fact that there
were guests in the house, the front-door latch had
been dropped quite early in the evening.  A rigid
cross-examination of Hafid led to no satisfactory
result.  The man was almost congealed with terror
and shock, but it was quite obvious that he knew
nothing whatever about the mystery.

"There will be an inquest to-morrow at twelve,
Sir Clement," Townsend said.  "It will probably
be a mere formal affair at which you gentlemen
will be present.  Good night, sirs."

"We had better follow the inspector's
example," Lefroy cried.  "Good night, Frobisher."

"My dear fellow, I wish you a cordial adieu,"
Frobisher cried.  "And I can only regret that our
pleasant evening has had so tragic a termination.
Townsend, you have locked up the back dining-room
and taken the key?  Good!  I want no extra
responsibility."

The big hall-door closed behind the last of them.
Frobisher took Hafid firmly by the collar and led
him into the orchid-house.

"Now, you rascal," he asked, "what on earth
do you mean by it?"

"Take it and destroy it, and burn it," Hafid
wailed, with a wriggling of his body.  He seemed
to be trying to shake off something loathsome.
"Oh, master, what is to become of us?"

"You grovelling, superstitious fool," Frobisher
said lightly.  "Nothing will become of us.
Nobody knows anything, nobody will ever know
anything as long as you remain silent.  We
haven't murdered anybody!"

"Allah looking down from Paradise knows
better than that, master!"

"Well, he is not likely to be called in as a
witness," Frobisher muttered grimly.  "I tell you
nothing has happened that the law can take the
least cognisance of.  Mind you, I didn't know that
things would go quite so far.  When I rang up
the curtain it was comedy I looked for, not
tragedy.  Take the key and go into the
dining-room.  Remove those orchids and burn
them, taking care that you destroy thirty-nine
of the red flowers.  Then you can go to bed."

Hafid recoiled with unutterable loathing on his face.

"I couldn't do it," he whispered.  "I couldn't
touch one of those accursed blossoms.  Beat me,
torture me, turn me into the street to starve, but
don't ask me to do that, master.  I dare not."

He cowered abjectly at Frobisher's feet.  With
good-humoured contempt the latter kicked him
aside.  "Go to bed," he said.  "You are a greater
coward than even I imagined.  Put the lights out,
and I'll go to bed also."

The lights were carefully put out, except in the
smoking-room, where Frobisher sat pondering
over the strange events of the evening.  He was
not in the least put out or alarmed or distressed;
on the contrary, he looked like a man who had
been considerably pleased with an interesting
entertainment.  For Manfred he felt neither
sorrow nor sympathy.

He did not look fearfully round the room as if
half expecting to see the shadow of Manfred's
assassin creeping upon him.  But he smiled in his
own peculiar fashion as the door opened and a
white-robed figure came in.  It was Angela with
her fine hair about her shoulders and a look of
horror in her eyes.

"So you've found out all about it," Sir Clement
said.  "I'm sorry, because it will spoil your rest.
How did you come to make the discovery?"

"I had just come in," Angela explained.  "I
let myself in with my latchkey.  I did not come
near you because I could hear that you were
entertaining company, so I went straight to bed.
Then I heard Hafid's cry, and I came to the head
of the stairs where I could hear everything."

"You mean to say that you stood there and listened?"

"I couldn't help it.  So far as I could judge there
was an assassin in the house.  Just for the
moment I was far too frightened to move.  That
raving madman might have come for me next."

"Well, you can make your mind quite easy on
that score.  As you know, the whole house has
been most thoroughly searched from top to
bottom, and there is nobody here but the servants
and ourselves now.  If I were you I should keep
out of it.  Go to bed."

Sir Clement barked out the last few words, but
Angela did not move.

"There will be an inquest, of course?" she asked.

"Oh, Lord, yes!  The papers will reek of it,
and half the reporters in London will look upon the
place as a kind of public-house for the next week.
Take my advice and keep out of it.  You know
nothing and you want to continue to know nothing,
so to speak."

"But I am afraid that I know a great deal,"
Angela said slowly.  "When I came in I was
going into the conservatory to place a flower that
I had given me to-night.  It is a flower that I am
likely to be interested in another time.  And there
I saw a strange man walking swiftly the same way.
From his air and manner he was obviously doing
wrong.  My idea was to follow and stop him.  And
when I reached the conservatory, to my intense
surprise, he was nowhere to be seen."

Frobisher bent down to fill his pipe.  There was
an evil, diabolical grin, so malignant, and yet so
gleeful, as to render the face almost inhuman.

"It may be of importance later on," he said.
"Meanwhile, I should keep the information to
myself.  Now go to bed and lock your door.  I'm
going to finish my pipe in my dressing-room."

Frobisher snapped out the lights, leaving the
house in darkness.  For once in her life Angela
did lock her door.  She could not sleep; she had
no desire for bed and yet her eyes were heavy
and tired.  She pulled up the blind and opened the
window; out beyond, the garden was flooded
with moonlight.  As Angela stood there she seemed
to see a figure creeping from one bush to another.

"It is my fancy," she told herself.  "I could
imagine anything to-night.  And yet I could have
been certain that I saw the figure of a man."

Angela paused; it was no fancy.  A man crept
over the grass and looked up at the window as if
he were doing something strictly on the lines of
conventionality.  To her amazement Angela saw
that the intruder was in evening dress, and that
it was Harold Denvers.

"Harold," she whispered.  "Whatever are you
doing there?"

"I came on the chance," was the reply.  "I
have heard strange things to-night, and there is
something that I must know at once.  I was
going to try and rouse you with some pebbles.
Dare you go down to the garden-room window
and let me in?  Darling, it is a matter of life or
death, or I would not ask."

Angela slipped down the stairs noiselessly, and
opened the window.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`BIT OF THE ROPE`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER VI.


.. class:: center medium bold

   A BIT OF THE ROPE.

.. vspace:: 2

Sir James Brownsmith thought that on
the whole he would walk home from
Piccadilly to Harley Street.  The chauffeur
touched his hat, and the car moved on.  The
eminent surgeon had ample food for reflection;
it seemed to him that he was on the verge of a
great discovery.  Somebody accosted him two or
three times before he came back to earth again.

"That you, Townsend?" he asked, abruptly.
"You want to speak to me?  Certainly.  Only as
I am rather tired to-night if you will cut it as short
as possible, I shall be glad."

"I am afraid I can't, Sir James," Inspector
Townsend replied.  "Indeed I was going to suggest
that I walked as far as your house and had a chat
over matters."

Sir James shrugged his shoulders, and Harley
Street was reached almost in silence.  In the
small consulting-room the surgeon switched on
a brilliant light and handed over cigars and
whisky and soda.

"Now go on," he said.  "It's all about
to-night's business, I suppose?"

"Precisely, sir.  You've helped us a good many
times with your wonderful scientific knowledge,
and I dare say you will again.  This Piccadilly
mystery is a queer business altogether.  Do you
feel quite sure that the poor fellow was really
murdered, after all?"

Brownsmith looked fixedly at the speaker.  He
had considerable respect for Townsend, whose
intellect was decidedly above the usual Scotland
Yard level.  Townsend was a man of imagination
and a master of theory.  He went beyond motive
and a cast of a footmark—he was no rule-of-thumb
workman.

"On the face of it I should say there can be no
possible doubt," said Sir James.

"Murdered by strangulation, sir?  The same as
that man at Streatham.  As you have made a
careful examination of both bodies you ought to know?"

"Is there any form of murder unknown to me,
Townsend?" Sir James asked.  "Is there any
trick of the assassin's trade that I have not
mastered?"

"Oh, I admit your special knowledge, sir!  But
it's a trick of mine to be always planning new
crimes.  I could give you three ways of committing
murder that are absolutely original.  And I've
got a theory about this business that I don't care
to disclose yet.  Still, we can discuss the matter
up to a certain point.  Both those men were
destroyed—or lost their lives—in the same way."

"Both strangled, in fact.  It's the Indian Thug
dodge.  But you know all about that, Townsend?"

"We'll admit for the moment that both
victims have been destroyed by Thugee.  But
isn't it rather strange that both bodies were found
in close juxtaposition to valuable orchids?  We
know, of course, that Sir Clement's orchids are
almost priceless.  The Streatham witness, Silverthorne,
says that a very rare orchid was recently
placed in the Lennox conservatory.  Now, isn't
it fair to argue that both murdered men lost their
lives in pursuit of those orchids?"

Sir James nodded thoughtfully.  He had
forgotten the Cardinal Moth for the moment.

"I see you have pushed your investigations a
long way in this direction," he said.  "This being
so, have you ascertained for a fact that the
Lennox nursery really contained nothing out of
the common in the way of Orchidacæ?  You know
what I mean."

"Quite so, sir.  That I have not been able to
ascertain because the proprietor of the Lennox
nursery has no special knowledge of his trade.  His
great line is cheap ferns for the London market.
But he says a gentleman whom he could easily
recognise left him an orchid to look after—a poor
dried-up stick it seemed to be—with instructions
to keep it in a house not too warm, where it might
remain at a small rent till wanted."

"Oh, indeed!  You are interesting me,
Townsend.  Pray go on."

"Well, Sir James, I wanted to see the flowers
after the murder, not that I expected it to lead to
anything at that time.  Seeing what has happened
this evening, it becomes more interesting.  Would
you believe it, sir, that the flower in question was
gone?"

"You mean that it had been stolen?  Really,
Townsend, we seem to be on the track of
something important."

"Yes, Sir James, the flower had gone.  Now,
what I want to know is this—has Sir Clement
Frobisher added anything special to his collection
lately?"

Sir James shot an admiring glance at his
questioner.  Seeing that he was working almost
entirely in the dark, Townsend had developed his
theory with amazing cleverness.

"It's a treat to work with you," the great
surgeon said.  "As a matter of fact, Sir Clement
had got hold of something that struck me as
absolutely unique.  It's a flower called the
Cardinal Moth.  A flower on a flower, so to speak;
a large cluster of whitey-pink blossoms with little
red blooms hovering over like a cloud of scarlet
moths.  Sir Clement is very pleased about it."

"From what you say I gather that he has not
had it long, sir?"

"Oh, I should say quite recently!  But you are
not going to tell me that you suspect Frobisher?"

"At present, I don't suspect anybody, though
Sir Clement is an unmitigated rascal who would
not stop at any crime to serve his own ends.  I
don't go so far as to say that he had a hand in the
business, but I do say that he could tell us exactly
how the tragedy took place."

Sir James shot an admiring glance in the
direction of the speaker.  Frobisher's elfish
interest in the crime, and his amazing *sang-froid*
under the circumstances, had struck the surgeon
unpleasantly.  Townsend looked reflectively into
the mahogany depths of his whisky and soda.

"It's one thing to know that, and quite another
to make a man like Sir Clement speak," he said.
"I am more or less with you, sir, over the Thugee
business, but was the crime committed with a
rope?  I shall not be surprised to find that it was
done with a bramble, something like honeysuckle
or the like.  But at the same time as you seemed
so certain about the rope, why——"

Townsend waved his hand significantly.  Sir
James rose and unlocked a safe from which he
produced an envelope with some fibrous brown
strands in it.  These he placed under a powerful
microscope.

"Now, these I took from the throat of the poor
fellow who was killed at Streatham," he explained.
"I was rather bored by the case when you called
me in first, and even up to the time I gave my
evidence at the inquest.  After the inquest was
over I examined the body over again, and I confess
that my interest increased as I proceeded.  After
what you have just told me I am completely
fascinated.  I made a most careful examination
of the dead man's neck once, and had discovered
that he had died of strangulation, and bit by bit I
collected these.  They are fibres of the rope with
which the crime was done."

Townsend nodded so far as Sir James had proved
his case.

"Have you done as much with the poor fellow
at Sir Clement's residence?" he asked.

"No, but I shall do so in the morning.  This is
a curious sort of stuff, Townsend, and certainly
not made in England.  It is not rope or cord in
our commercial sense of the word, but a strong
Manilla twist of native fibre.  Thus we are going
to introduce a foreign element into the solution."

Townsend smiled as he produced a little packet
from his pocket and laid it on the table.

"You are building up my theory for me,
wonderfully, sir," he said.  "I also have something
of the same sort here, only I have more than you
seem to have collected.  Here is the same sort of
fibre from Mr. Manfred's collar-stud, so that he
must have been strangled over his collar, which
means a powerful pressure.  I didn't think it
possible for human hands to put a pressure like
that, but there it is."

"My word, we've got a powerful assassin to look
for!" Sir James exclaimed.  "Like you, I should
not have deemed it possible.  Did you find all that
on Manfred's collar-stud?"

"Not all of it, sir.  The collar-stud was bent up
as if it had been a bit of tinfoil.  But I found the
bulk of this under the dead man's finger-nails.
They are long nails, and doubtless in the agony
of strangulation they clutched frantically at the
cord.  I am quite sure that you will find this
fibre to be identical with that which you took
from the neck of the Streatham victim."

"And this caretaker you speak of.  Is he a
respectable man?  Silverthorne you said his name
was, I fancy."

"That's the man, sir.  He has been in his
present employ for one-and-twenty years, a
hard-working, saving man, with a big family.
Oh, I should take his word for most things that
he told me!"

Sir James revolved the problem slowly in his
mind, as he inhaled his cigarette smoke.  If the
Lennox nursery had been deliberately made the
centre of a puzzling murder mystery, it was quite
sure that neither the nursery proprietor nor his
man knew anything whatever about it.  And yet
it had been necessary, for some reason, that a
glass-house should play an important part, for
both murders had taken place under glass, and
both suggested that the orchid was at the bottom
of it.  Again, Townsend was not the kind of man
to make reckless statements, and when he boldly
averred that Sir Clement Frobisher could tell all
about it if he liked, he had assuredly some very
strong evidence to go upon.  A great deal depended
upon the analysis of the red, liquid stain on the
fibre taken by Townsend from the body of Manfred.

"If these little bits of stuff could speak what
tales they could tell," Sir James said, as he
carefully locked up both packets of fibre.  I'll
get up an hour earlier in the morning and have
a dig at these, Townsend.  And meanwhile as my
days are busy ones, and it's past one o clock, I
shall have to get you to finish your drink and give
me your room instead of your company.

Townsend took the hint and his hat and retired.
But though Sir James had expressed his intention
of retiring almost immediately, he stretched out
his hand for another cigarette and lighted it
thoughtfully.  Was it possible, he wondered, if
Sir Clement Frobisher really could solve the
mystery?  And had he anything to do with it?
Not directly, Sir James felt sure; Frobisher was
not that kind of man.  He was much more
likely to get the thing done for him.  He was
secretive, too, over the Cardinal Moth; he had
behaved so queerly over that business of Count
Lefroy and his insult of Frobisher's guest.
Brownsmith pitched his cigarette into the grate,
and switched off the electric light impatiently.

"Why should I worry my head about it?"
he muttered.  "I'll go to bed."





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`A GRIP OF STEEL`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER VII.


.. class:: center medium bold

   A GRIP OF STEEL.

.. vspace:: 2

Sir Clement had not gone to bed yet.  He
sat over a final pipe in his dressing-room,
the fumes of the acrid tobacco lingered
everywhere.  The owner of the house leant back,
his eyes half closed, and the smile on his face
suggestive of one who is recalling some exquisite
comedy.  A shocking tragedy had been enacted
almost under his very eyes, and yet from
Frobisher's attitude the thing had pleased him,
he was not in the least disturbed.

He began to kick off his clothing slowly, the
filthy clay pipe between his lips.  He touched a
bell, and Hafid slid into the room.  There was
terror in his eyes enough and to spare.  He might
have been a detected murderer in the presence
of his accuser.  He trembled, his lips were
twitching piteously, there was something about
him of the rabbit trying to escape.

"Well, mooncalf," Frobisher said with bitter
raillery.  "Well, my paralytic pearl of idiots.
Why do you stand there as if somebody was
tickling your midriff with a bowie knife?"

"Take it and burn it, and destroy it," Hafid
muttered.  The man was silly with terror.  "Take
it and burn it, and destroy it."

"Oh, Lord, was there ever such a fool since the
world began?" Frobisher cried.  "If you make
that remark again I'll jamb your head against the
wall till your teeth chatter."

"Take it and burn it, and destroy it," Hafid
went on mechanically.  "Master, I can't help it.
My tongue does not seem able to say anything
else.  Let me go, send me away.  I'm not longer
to be trusted.  I shall run wild into the night
with my story."

"Yes, and I shall run wild with my story in the
day-time, and where will you be then, my
blusterer?  What's the matter with the man?
Has anybody been murdered?"

"No," Hafid said slowly, as if the words were
being dragged out of him.  "At least, the law
could not say so.  No, master, nobody has been
murdered."

"Then what are you making all this silly fuss
about?  Nobody has been murdered but an
inquisitive thief who has accidentally met with
his death.  Other inquisitive thieves are likely to
meet with the same fate.  Past master amongst
congenial idiots, go to bed."

Frobisher shouted the command backed up by a
sounding smack on the side of Hafid's head.  He
went off without sense or feeling; indeed, he was
hardly conscious of the blow.  Frobisher sat there
smiling, sucking at the marrow of his pipe, and
slowly preparing for bed.  His alertness and
attention never relaxed a moment, his quick ears
lost nothing.

"Who's moving in the house?" he muttered.
"I heard a door open softly.  When people want
to get about a house at dead of night it is a mistake
to move softly.  The action is suspicious, whereas
if the thing were openly done, one doesn't trouble."

Frobisher snapped out the lights and stood in
the doorway, rigid to attention.  Presently the
darkness seemed to rustle and breathe, there was a
faint suggestion of air in motion, and then silence
again.  Frobisher grinned to himself as he slipped
back into his room.

"Angela," he said softly; "I could detect that
faint fragrance of her anywhere.  Now what's she
creeping about the house at this time for?  If
she isn't back again in a quarter of an hour I shall
proceed to investigate.  My cold and haughty
Angela on assignation bent!  Oh, oh!"

Angela slipped silently down the broad stairway,
utterly unconscious of the fact that she had been
discovered.  She was usually self-contained
enough, but her heart was beating a little faster
than usual.  In some vague way she could not
disassociate this visit of Harold's from the
tragedy of the earlier evening.  And to a certain
extent Harold was compromising her, a thing he
would have hesitated to do unless the need had
been very pressing.  By instinct Angela found her
way to the garden-room window, the well-oiled
catch came back with a click, and Harold was in
the room.  They wanted no light, the moon was
more than sufficient.  Harold's face was pale and
distressed in the softened rays of light.

"My dearest, I had to come," he whispered in
extenuation.  "It was my only chance.  I could
not possibly enter Sir Frobisher's house by
legitimate means, and yet at the same time it is
important that I should see certain things here.
If I could only tell you everything!"

"Tell me all or as little as you like," Angela
whispered.  "I can trust you all the same."

"It is good to hear you say that, Angela.  It
was wrong of me to come, and yet there was no
other way.  Did you show Sir Clement those
blossoms that I gave you?"

"My dear, there was no possible chance.  I
placed the spray in the conservatory, intending
to give my guardian a pleasant surprise to-morrow,
and then the tragedy happened.  But of course
you know nothing of that."

"Indeed I do, Angela.  I know all about it.
Jessop, the judge, who dined here to-night, came
into the club full of it.  Manfred, Count Lefroy's
secretary, wasn't it?"

"The same man.  I cannot understand it.
Harold.  There was a man in the conservatory,
or rather there was a man going towards the
conservatory, who had no business there.  Anybody
could see that from his manner.  My idea was
to place the spray there and to ask the intruder
what he was doing.  When I reached the
conservatory the place was empty.  Absolutely
empty, and yet I had seen the man enter!  There
is no exit either.  I went back to my room not
knowing what to think.  And shortly afterwards
I heard Hafid cry out.  From the top of the stairs
I heard all that was going on.  And the man who
had been strangled in the conservatory was the
very man I had seen."

Denvers said nothing for the moment.  He was
breathing hard and his face was pale with horror.
Angela could feel his hand trembling as she laid
her own upon it.

"I think you understand," she whispered.  "I
fancy that you know.  Harold, tell me what all
this strange mystery means."

"Not yet," Denvers replied.  "You must wait.
Nobody ever heard the like of it before.  And so
long as you are under the same roof as—but
what am I talking about?  But this much I may
say: the whole horrible problem revolves round
the Cardinal Moth."

"Round the flower that you gave me to-night,
Harold!  And that so innocent looking and
beautiful."

"Well, there it is.  I have been on the fringe
of it for some time.  Angela, you must give me
back that spray of blossom, you must not mention
it to Sir Clement at all.  And now I must have a
look into the conservatory, indeed I came on
purpose."

"You came expecting to find something, a clue
to the mystery there?"

"Well, yes, if you like to put it that way,"
Denvers murmured, avoiding Angela's eyes for the
first time.  "I had a plant of that Cardinal Moth
which I deemed safely hidden in Streatham.  Why
I had to hide it I will tell you in due course.  It
had a great deal to do between myself and the
Shan of Koordstan, with whom I hoped to do
important business.  I mentioned it to him and he
showed me a paragraph in a paper which for the
moment has scattered all my plans.  As soon as I
read that paragraph I felt certain that my Moth
had been stolen, though it cost one life to get it.
When I heard of the tragedy here to-night, I was
absolutely sure as to my facts.  Angela, my Moth
is in the conservatory here, and Manfred lost his
life trying to steal it for somebody else."

Angela listened with a vague feeling that she
would wake presently and find it all a dream.  A
new horror had been added to the house in the
last few minutes.

"Let us hope you are wrong," she said with a
shudder.  "Come and see at once.  But what do
you propose to do if you find that your suspicions
are correct?"

Denvers hardly knew; he had had no time to
think that part out.  He reached out to find a switch
for the light, but Angela's gentle hand detained him.

"The moon must suffice," she said.  "Sir
Clement has eyes like a hawk.  What's that?"

A thud in the hall followed by an unmistakable
cry of pain.  It was only just for an instant, and
then there was silence again.  Angela drew her
lover back into the shadow of the curtain.

"That was Sir Clement," she whispered.
"Whether he has found me out, or has merely
come down for something, I can't say.  Probably
he kicked against something in the dark.  Harold!"

For Harold had darted out from the curtain and
gripped something that looked like a shadow.  As
he dragged his burden forward the moon shone
on the dull features of Hafid.  Taken suddenly as
he had been, he did not display the slightest
traces of fear.

"My beautiful mistress is watched," he said
smoothly.  "I came to warn her.  Sir Clement
has gone up to his dressing-room for his slippers.
He struck his illustrious toe against a marble
table and——"

"Then follow him and lock him in," Harold
said hurriedly.  "Do that and you shall not be
forgotten.  Lock the dressing-room door whilst
you are pretending to look for the slippers."

"You could do me no greater service," Angela
whispered sweetly.

Hafid hastened off as noiselessly as a cat.  There
was nothing short of murder that he would
not have done for Angela.  There was no light
in Frobisher's dressing-room, by the aid of the
moon he was fumbling for his slippers.  He
turned as Hafid entered.

"My master was moving and I heard him,"
Hafid said.  "Is there anything that I can do?"

"Yes," Frobisher said crisply.  "You can hunt
round and find my confounded slippers.  That
fool of a man of mine never puts things in the
same place twice."

Hafid came back presently with the missing
articles.  The key of the dressing-room was in his
pocket, he slipped through the bedroom and
locked that door also.  Frobisher stood listening
a minute or two with a queer, uneasy grin on his
face.  Evidently this little accident had not
frightened the game away.  He turned the handle
softly, but with no effect.  He shook the door
passionately.  Something seemed to have gone
wrong with the lock.  That Hafid should have
dared to play such a trick never for one moment
entered Frobisher's mind.  With his well-trained
philosophy Frobisher sat down and filled his pipe.
What a woman had done safely once, she was
certain to attempt again, he argued, perhaps try
and attempt a better move.  And there were other
light nights before the moon had passed the full.
Denvers stood listening, but no further sound
came.  The attempt must be made now or never.

"Show me the conservatory," he whispered.
"There are long folding steps, of course?  Then
you can stay in the doorway till I have finished,
My darling, I am truly sorry to expose you to all
this, but——"

Angela led the way.  It was fairly light in the
great glass tank with its tangle of blooms, but as
Denvers entered a great gush of steam shot up
from the automatic pipe and filled the dome with
vapour.  Harold quickly drew the long steps to
the centre and mounted.  He disappeared in the
mist and was quickly lost amongst the tangle of
ropes and blossoms.  He had to wait for the
periodical cloud of vapour to pass away before he
could make a searching examination.  So far as
Angela could see, nobody was in the roof at all,
it was as if Denvers had disappeared, leaving no
trace behind.

There was another gush of steam followed by a
shower of falling blossoms, and a quick cry of
pain from the dome.  As Angela darted forward
the cry of pain came again, there was a confused
vision of a struggling figure, and then Denvers came
staggering down the steps holding his right arm to
his side, his face bedabbled with a moisture that was
caused by something beyond the heated atmosphere.

"What has happened?" Angela asked
hurriedly.  "Have you had an accident with
your arm?"

Denvers stood there gasping and reeling for a
moment.  The steam had all evaporated now, and
there was nothing to be seen in the dome but a
tangle of blossoms on their rigid cords.  At
Denvers' feet lay a spray of the Cardinal Moth.
Despite his pain he placed it in his pocket.

"Look here," he said hoarsely.  "This is
witchcraft.  Somebody grasped my arm, some
unseen force clutched me.  I managed to get away
by sheer strength, but look here."

There was a ring of blood all round Denvers'
wrist, the flesh had been cut almost to the bone.
It seemed almost impossible for a human hand to
grasp like that, but there it was.  And up in the
dome now there was nothing to be seen but the
tangled masses of glorious blooms.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE WEAKER VESSEL`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER VIII.


.. class:: center medium bold

   THE WEAKER VESSEL.

.. vspace:: 2

Like most men of his class, Frobisher had a
perfect knowledge of the art of using
others.  To study their weakness was always
the first stage of the game, and therefore in an
early stage of their acquaintance the little baronet
learnt the fact that Paul Lopez was criminally
extravagant with his money.  How Lopez got
rid of it Frobisher neither knew nor cared, the
weakness paid him, and there was an end of it.

Therefore Frobisher paid his henchman liberally.
There was no generosity about it, nothing but
policy.  That was the secret of Lopez's life, and
beyond that Frobisher never attempted to
penetrate.  Perhaps he knew that Lopez must
not be pushed too far.

Paul Lopez had contented himself with the
result of his labours for the day.  He was a plain,
simply-dressed man himself, and gave no suggestion
of a liking for the luxuries and good things
of this life.  All the same, he was seated now at
a most perfectly-appointed table, clad in most
immaculate evening-dress, and looking across a
table in the centre of which was a veritable bank
of flowers.  Two opal electric swans floated upon
what was meant to resemble a miniature lake,
and these gave the only light to the dinner-table.

The dining-room was small but exquisitely
furnished, for Lopez had a pretty taste that way.
There were no servants in the room now, for coffee
had been served, and Lopez was leaning back
with the air of one who has dined wisely and well.

On the other side of the table a girl sat.  She
was slight and fair, with a pretty, petulant face,
the spoilt look not in the least detracting from
her Greuze-like beauty.  Her eyes were the eyes
of a woman, and her expression that of a child.
Lopez called her simply Cara—not even his most
intimate acquaintances knew her other name—and
she was popularly supposed to be the child
of some dead and gone friend.  No daughter had
ever had more care and love bestowed upon her
than Cara, she was the one soft spot in Lopez's
life.  Perhaps she cared for him in a way; perhaps
she had come to regard him and all these luxuries
as a matter of course; certain it was that Cara
lacked nothing many times when Lopez had to
go without.

There was a queer, half-ashamed look on his
face now, as he pulled at his cigarette.  Cara
had been scolding him, and he looked like a
detected schoolboy.

"You have been gambling again," she said,
sharply.  "Why do you do it?  You would be a
rich man by this time if you would only let those
wretched cards alone.  And you always lose.  You
are so headstrong and rash, you seem to lose your
senses over the card-tables.  And you distinctly
promised to take me to Pau this year."

Lopez admitted the fact with a sigh.  Nobody
else under the sun would have dared to speak to
him as Cara was doing at this moment.  It never
occurred to him to suggest that Cara might be
doing something for a living.  He had promised
her a good time at Pau, instead of which he had
been gambling, and had lost all his money.

"No trouble at all getting cash," he murmured.

Cara crushed a grape between her white, strong
teeth.  "That sounds very pretty," she said.  "But
I have had no money for a week, and some of the
tradespeople are beginning to ask about their
books.  If I am to be worried I shall go away.
Did you get those tickets for the opera to-morrow
night?"

Lopez nodded.  He had not forgotten them; in
fact, he never forgot anything of that kind.  He
looked furtively at the clock, and Cara sighed.

"You are going out?" she demanded.  "Which
means that I am to have a long, dull evening at
home.  I am sick of these long, dull evenings at
home."

"How long since you had one?" Lopez asked,
good-naturedly.  "My dear, there are few girls
who have as good a time as you.  And business
must be attended to.  I have to go out for a
little time, but I shall be back by eleven o'clock.
And when I come back I'll take you to the
Belgrave to supper."

A little smile broke out on Cara's pretty, petulant
face.  Already she was debating in her mind what
dress she should wear.  When Lopez made a
promise of that kind he always fulfilled it.  Cara
rose, and now gave her guardian a loving embrace.
She smiled engagingly as she lighted a cigarette
for him.

"Then be off at once," she cried, "and then
you will have no excuse for being late.  It will
save time if I meet you at the Belgrave.  You
are to get that little table opposite the door for
10.45.  And you will wait for me in the corridor."

Cara issued her commands in the most imperial
way, and Lopez listened meekly.  He had been
used to command and make use of men all his
lifetime, but he never rebelled when Cara was
concerned.  He passed into the road leading to
Regent's Park presently, and hailed a passing taxi.
In the course of time he was set down at the
corner of Greenacre Street.

A little way down that quiet, dignified
thoroughfare he stopped, and took a latchkey from his
pocket.  The door of the house where he paused
was closed, a feeble light glimmered over the fan,
everything looked most quiet and respectable
and decorous.

In the hall was an umbrella-stand, two carved
oak chairs and a Turkey carpet.  Beyond it was
a dull baize door, and beyond that an inner hall
magnificently furnished.  A gorgeous footman
took Lopez's hat and coat, and he proceeded to
make his way up the marble staircase.  There
were more baize doors, and as Lopez paused, the
murmur of voices grew louder.  Lopez came at
length to a magnificent double drawing-room,
where the electric lights were low and dim under
crimson shades, and where a score or two of men
were gambling.  There was a roulette-table,
which was well patronised, with tables for other
games.  There was no laughter or badinage;
from the players' faces the stakes were evidently
high; indeed, the proprietor of the Spades' Club
looked with a cold eye upon the gambler who
preferred moderate stakes.  The place was
comparatively new, and as yet the police had no idea
of its establishment, and only a favoured few knew
where heavy play was to be found.

Lopez helped himself to an excellent cup of
coffee and a liqueur, and stood smoking placidly,
and waiting for a chance to join the roulette-table.
Most of the men round were well known
to him as great lights in the world of fashion, who
were killing an hour or so after dinner before
proceeding to one social function or another.  They
would, most of them, return in the small hours.

Another man was waiting, a little, lithe, active
man, who suggested the East.  His dress was
quite modern and Western, but his dark eyes
and dusky skin told their own tale.  Lopez gently
touched the spectator on the shoulder, and he
turned round sharply.

"Haven't you been playing at all?" Lopez asked.

"I had my turn," the other man said.  "I'm
dead out of luck, Lopez.  I shall have to help
myself to some of my master's jewels if this
goes on."

"Only unfortunately, he of Koordstan has
already anticipated you," Lopez laughed.  "You
will have to think of a better plan than that,
Hamid Khan."

Hamid Khan smiled sourly.  On the staff of the
Shan and sent over on a secret, political mission,
the dark-eyed man was a deadly enemy of the
man he called his master.  He had all the vices
and extravagances of his imperial employer, and
he would have done anything for the wherewithal
to carry on the campaign.  Lopez and he had
been more or less friends for many years, and
many a piece of shady business had they
transacted together.

"The Shan is hard up?" Lopez suggested.

"The Shan is at the end of his resources,"
Hamid Khan growled.  "Of course, it is always
possible for him to raise money on those
concessions.  But for the present he's what you call
hard up.  Still, he's not without brains, and he
may be worth backing."

"If I were you I should back him for all he
is worth," Lopez said, as he thoughtfully watched
the rolling marble on the roulette-table.  "I
know that you are in the opposite camp, and
that you have elected to throw your lot in with
what is called the progressives in Koordstan.
But the man you want to make Shan is a friend
of Russia, and the English Government may not
stand it.  Besides, the present Shan is no fool,
and I happen to know that he is well advised here.
If you can, get a grip on him."

"Oh, I've got the grip fast enough!" Hamid
Khan said moodily.  "Perhaps I should like to
do what you suggest, but I'm too deeply plunged
to the other side now.  I am forcing the old
man's hand now; I came over on purpose.  The
Blue Stone——"

Lopez suppressed a little cry.  He affected not
to be listening.

"If you will favour me with your attention,"
Hamid Khan said stiffly.

"My dear fellow, I beg your pardon.  But
red has turned up ten times in succession, and I
was counting up the theory of chance.  Do you
mean to say the Shan had sold the Blue Stone?"

It was cleverly done, and the shot was an
admirable one.  Hamid Khan fell into the trap
at once.

"The Shan's not quite such a fool as that," he
said.  "If he did that and the fact became public
property he wouldn't be on the throne for a week.
But I happen to know that he hasn't got the stone
at present, and I'm going to work that fact."

Lopez listened to all that Hamid had to say;
indeed, he went further, and made several
suggestions as if he had been advising a friend in
the most disinterested manner possible.  At the
same time, he had learnt a valuable piece of news,
and he was trying to find some way to use it to
the best advantage.  There came a gap in the
table presently and Lopez changed a handful of
notes into counters.  These notes were all the
money in his possession, but the fact troubled
Lopez not at all.  Once the gambling fever
possessed him, common sense went to the winds.

He played on for some time with varying
success, everything else forgotten.  He was fairly
temperate at first, but the fever began to turn in
his veins, and he started gambling in earnest.
Surely it was time for black to have a turn after
so marvellous a run of the red.  But according to
scientific authorities, this is nothing to go by,
and the chances are quite equal even after a
record run, and the end of an hour saw the last
of Lopez's gold-lettered counters swept with a
careless movement into the clutches of the bank,
and he rose with a sigh.

The proprietor of the club, a tall man, with the
bland air of a cabinet minister, came up to him
and proffered his condolences.  Lopez lighted a
cigarette with a steady hand.

"I thought you were playing very well," the
proprietor said.

"Nobody plays very well at this game," Lopez
said with a smile.  "There are some of England's
best intellects gathered here, well knowing that
the odds are on the bank.  And yet such is the
egotism of the human nature that every individual
expects that he is going to be more fortunate
than his fellows, and get the best of a dead
certainty.  My dear Bishop, if it came to a battle of
wits between you and myself, the disaster to you
would be great.  And yet we come here and you
grow richer and richer at our expense!"

"If a small cheque is any good?" the other
insinuated.

"It would go the same way.  Besides, I
cannot stay to-night.  I have a call elsewhere.
I am taking a lady to supper at the Belgrave,
where unhappily they give no credit.  In the
temporary insanity of the moment I have gambled
myself dry.  A five-pound note——"

The note was immediately forthcoming, with
an urgent request that Lopez would take what
he liked.  He took a further note, and rammed
it carelessly into his pocket.  Hamid Khan rose
at the same time from the other side of the table,
his dark eyes gleaming.  He helped himself
somewhat liberally to champagne from the side-table.

"You also, my friend," Lopez laughed.  "Let
us depart and console ourselves upon the road.  If
you have not anything better to do walk with
me as far as the Belgrave.  I can't ask you to
join me, because it is my privilege to be supping
with a lady there.  Come along."

They passed presently into Piccadilly, and
from thence by degrees through Grosvenor Square.
A great party was going on in one of the big
houses there, and the road was blocked with smart
conveyances.  The lights shined on many lovely
women, and Lopez carelessly admired them.
There was one lady in a car alone, a tall woman
with a wonderfully regular face and black hair
glowing with diamonds.

"My word, but she is lovely!" Hamid Khan
exclaimed.  "Who is she?  Looks English, but
there is a decided suggestion of the East about her."

"A wonderful woman," Lopez said.  "Unless
I am greatly mistaken, she is going to be one of
the big sensations of the world here.  She is the
wife of Aaron Benstein, the financier.  The old
chap is in his dotage now, and, of course, she
married him for his money.  As a matter of fact——"

Lopez broke off suddenly; he was going to
say that he had known Mrs. Benstein pretty
intimately at one time, but there was no reason
to tell Hamid that much.  The block of carriages
broke up at once, and the dazzling beauty with
the diamonds in her hair was gone.

"I know the name of Benstein," Hamid said.
"He is the old man whom the Shan has had
so many dealings with lately.  I shouldn't
wonder——"

It was the turn of Hamid to break off suddenly,
and Lopez smiled.  Under the big portico of
the Belgrave, the curiously-assorted couple parted.
Lopez lingered a moment to finish his cigarette.
In an ordinary way he watched the well-dressed
crowd flutter up the steps.

"By no means a bad night's work," he
muttered.  "I've picked up a piece of priceless
information, at least I hope so.  Unless I am
greatly mistaken my dear little Cara is going to
ruffle it with the best of them at Pau yet."





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.. _`A WORD TO THE WISE`:

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   CHAPTER IX.


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   A WORD TO THE WISE.

.. vspace:: 2

A soldier of fortune like Lopez was not
easily elated by the smiles of the first
goddess, but he felt on very good terms
with himself as he stood there finishing his
cigarette.  Most of the people who passed him
up the flight of marble steps were familiar to him,
and Lopez amused himself by marking them
off one by one.  He was in an indolent mood
now, but his glance grew brighter as a smartly-appointed
motor-car drove up and a lady alighted.

She had no covering to her marvellous
dead-black hair, though her dress was hidden by a
long wrap.  She was quite alone, her air was
absolutely self-possessed as she looked around
her.  As she came up the steps she became
conscious of Lopez's presence.

She smiled in a slow, languid way, and half held
out her hand.  "One always meets you in
unexpected places," she said.  "The last time we
came together the conditions were very different
to these."

"That is quite true, Isa," Lopez said gravely.

"Mrs. Benstein, if you please," the woman said,
with not the faintest trace of annoyance in her
tones.  The smile was almost caressing.  "We
had better observe the proprieties.  Do you
remember the last time we met, Paul Lopez?"

Lopez bowed gravely.  His mind had travelled
back a long way.  He had never forgotten the
marvellous beauty of this woman; it seemed
strangely heightened by the dress and the diamonds.

"You were not Mrs. Benstein then," he said.

"No.  My ambitions did not lie in that direction.
I had no liking for a fortune ready made.
I always made up my mind to carve out one
for myself.  But since then I have learnt how
hard it is for a woman to do so."

The great, dark eyes grew thoughtful for a
moment, then the woman laughed.

"We are all puppets of fate," she went on,
"even the strongest of us.  I am a philosopher,
or at least I imagine myself to be one, so it comes
to the same thing.  I am tired of the contemplation
of my splendour, so I am going to make use of it.
I shall go into society."

"I am quite sure you will go anywhere you
please," Lopez said.

"Yes," the woman spoke as if it were a matter
of course.  "To-morrow I begin.  The wife of
Aaron Benstein, the money-lender.  How they
will sneer and mock at me!"

"And how they will envy you from the bottom
of their shallow hearts!"

Mrs. Benstein laughed as she walked up the
shallow steps.

"That will give salt to the dish," she said.
"I came here to-night because I was tired of my
own company.  Let us sup together and talk of
old times."

Lopez was desolated, but he had to decline.
There was a girl waiting for him here, a simple
girl who was not used to this kind of thing.  It
seemed dreadfully rude, but Mrs. Benstein would
have to excuse him.  The woman with the dark
eyes smiled meaningly.

"As you will," she said.  "Then I will sup
alone and study human nature uninterrupted.
Good night."

She passed on to the grand salon where the
band was playing, and hundreds of soft-shaded
lights played upon the banks of flowers and on
the jewels that glittered there; Cara had secured
her favourite table, and was busy looking over
the menu when Lopez came up.

"I began to think that something had happened,"
the girl said.  "I feared lest you had
gambled all your money away."

"So I did, as a matter of fact," Lopez said
coolly, as he unfolded his serviette.  "I had to
borrow ten pounds for the supper.  But you need
not fear—the information I got was worth the
price.  Now let me see what there is to eat."

"Tell me what you have discovered," Cara
demanded imperiously.

"That I shall not do, my child," Lopez replied.
"Suffice it, that you have the benefit of my
labours.  Besides, it all refers to a closed chapter
in my life.  I have found a way to put money in
my purse, so that you will ruffle it with the best
of them at Pau."

Cara smiled contentedly.  She finished her meal
presently, and then she had time to study the other
guests.  It was always a fascination to her to
try and read the history of other people.  As a
rule, her guesses were fairly shrewd, and when
she was wrong Lopez corrected her.

"Who are those people at the third table?"
she asked.  "The man looks like a gentleman;
he might have been in the army.  But there is a
certain fierce swagger about him that tells a story.
There is a man who is rather cold-shouldered at
his clubs.  His wife is pretty, but shallow, and
not at all too straightforward.  The boy with them
is dreadful.  Probably rich, though."

Lopez smiled as he lay back in his chair.

"You are correct," he said.  "That is Colonel
Fairford and his wife.  They are the hero and
heroine of that Lawton Lodge diamond scandal.
Of course nothing was ever proved, but we have
our ideas.  The Colonel sticks to his clubs, but
he has had a bad time there, and nobody will play
cards with him.  The young man comes from
Australia.  He is rich at present, but the Colonel
will see that he does not long remain troubled
with superfluous cash."

A gratified little smile played about the corners
of Cara's mouth.

"If the worst comes to the worst, I can call
myself by a fancy name and turn palmist," she
exclaimed.  "We are very clever people, you and
I.  On the whole, the people here to-night are not
particularly interesting.  Who is the lady with
the glorious diamonds?"

Cara indicated Mrs. Benstein sitting all alone,
self-possessed and languidly interested in all
that was going on around her.

"The recently-married wife of Aaron Benstein,
the great financier," Lopez explained.  "The old
man is more or less in his dotage, and they
say there is nothing that he will not do for his
beautiful wife."

"The diamonds are absolutely superb," Cara said.

"Why should they not be?  Benstein is
supposed to have two-thirds of the jewels of
society in his charge at one time or another.
That is the way in which your high dame raises
the wind.  Most of those stones are kept at
Benstein's own house.  Doubtless his wife knows
all about them.  Then, if she wishes to wear this
or that precious gem, why shouldn't she?"

Cara laughed merrily.  Mrs. Benstein seemed to
fascinate her.

"It is no bad thing to be the wife of a big
financier," she said.  "Those diamonds and
emeralds together are absolutely superb.  Who
was Mrs. Benstein?"

Lopez was understood to say that she was a
brilliant mystery.  Nobody quite knew where she
came from, and nobody cared.  But she was rich
and beautiful and clever, and if she made up her
mind to play the game of society, nobody could
stop her.  All this Lopez explained as he sipped
his liqueur.  Cara took Mrs. Benstein in steadily.

"She would make a good enemy," she said.
"Who is the vulgar woman who is having supper
with that handsome man with the red beard?"

"Oh, that is Lady Beachmore!" Lopez explained.
"Beachmore is a man of a good family,
he has a good name, and his career as a soldier
was an honourable one.  There are phases of
human nature that beat me entirely, Cara.  A
case like that makes me feel how little I know.
Lady Beachmore was on the variety stage, with
nothing piquant about her but her vulgarity.
She is plain, she is horribly made up, and yet
Beachmore married her."

"Is he a rich man?"

"As things go, yes.  He is one of the peers who
has enough for his wants and a little to spare, as the
old song has it.  Why did he marry her, Cara?"

Cara admitted that the problem was beyond her.
Lady Beachmore was vulgar enough, in all
conscience; she talked loudly and she drank a
great deal of champagne.  She was extravagantly
dressed, but she wore no ornaments—which was
unusual in a woman of her class.

"She ought to be smothered in stones," Cara said.

"Bridge," Lopez explained sententiously.
"Lady Beachmore is one of the most reckless
gamblers in society.  Probably that is why she
is tolerated in good houses.  Everybody knows
what a gambler she is except her husband.  If I
were to hazard a guess I should say that the
Beachmore jewels are all in the possession of
Aaron Benstein."

Cara nodded.  The salon was gradually getting
empty.  Lord Beachmore said something to his
wife, who shook her head, and then he sauntered
slowly from the room.  Lady Beachmore looked
across to the seat where Mrs. Benstein was
reclining, and her coarse face grew red with anger.
By some kind of magnetic influence the eyes of
the two women met, and the former rose.  She
crossed over to Mrs. Benstein's table, a few low
words followed before Mrs. Benstein rose also.

Her eyes were flashing and her breast was
heaving.  She made a motion towards the jewels
in her hair, and then seemed to change her mind.
A few of the low, angry words reached Lopez's
ears.  A sardonic smile was on his lips.

"A curious coincidence," he muttered.  "She
is actually wearing Lady Beachmore's diamonds!
Well, the information should prove valuable.  I'll
go and see Frobisher to-morrow.  The mere hint
of what can be done should be worth five hundred
pounds."

"What are you muttering about?" Cara
asked impatiently.  "Take me home, I'm tired
of all this light and glitter.  Sometimes I wish
that I had never left the country.  All the same,
I would give a great deal to know what those
people are talking about."





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.. _`A WORD TO THE WISE.`:

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   CHAPTER X.


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   A WORD TO THE WISE.

.. vspace:: 2

Sir Clement stood before a looking-glass
in the library surveying himself with a
certain saturnine humour.  He was just as
fond of analysing himself as other people, and he
had just come to the conclusion that there was a
deal to be said from the Darwinian point of view.

"Is it the morning-coat or the top-hat?" he
asked himself.  "How terribly like a dissipated
old ape I look, to be sure!  And yet in a velvet
dinner-jacket I am quite—well, picturesque.  On
the whole, that is better than being handsome.
Ah, somebody is going to suffer for this!  Come in."

The door opened, and Paul Lopez came almost
inaudibly into the room.  Not for a moment did
Frobisher discontinue his critical examination.

"I'm going to a garden-party," he explained.
"I'm taking my womenfolk to the Duchess's
afternoon affair.  I was just saying to myself that
somebody would have to suffer for this."

Lopez dropped into a chair and lighted a
cigarette quite coolly.

"Nobody would suspect you of this personal
sacrifice without some ultimate benefit," he said.

"Spoken like a book, my prince of rascals,"
Frobisher cried gaily.  "I see they have adjourned
those two inquests again."

The two men looked at one another and smiled.
They were not pleasant smiles, and Frobisher's
teeth bared in a sudden grin that was not good to
see.  He crossed to the table near which Lopez was
seated, and began to play with a cheque-book.

"Artistic things, these," he said.  "Observe
the beauty of the watermark, the fine instinct
of the oblong; note the contrast between the
pale pink of the legend and the flaming red of
the stamp.  My Lopez, a cheque, properly
verified, and engagingly autographed, is veritably
a joyful thing."

"A study in itself," Lopez said without
emotion.  "What are you after, you rascal?"

"My Lopez, you are taking liberties.  I am a
baronet of old creation, whereas you are what
you are."

"Arcades ambo.  You sent for me, and I am
here; my time is money.  Once more, what are
you driving at?"

"I'm puzzled," Frobisher replied, still ogling
his cheque-book lovingly.  "Frankly, I'm puzzled.
If I were not so busy with the big things I'd soon
solve the little ones.  Are you ever puzzled,
Lopez?"

"Occasionally," Lopez replied.  "When people
tell me the truth, for instance.  There was one
man who had everything to gain by lying to me,
and he didn't do it.  That was a tough job."

Frobisher did not appear to be listening.  With a
pen in his hand he wrote the words "Paul Lopez"
on the top line of a cheque.  The cosmopolitan's
eyes flashed for a moment.

"Well, I am going to tell you the truth,"
Frobisher went on.  "Such a course under the
circumstances will save me a lot of trouble.  Mind
you, I am going to tell the absolute truth.  You
know all about the Shan of Koordstan, of course.
He promised me certain things, and now he is
trying to wriggle out of his bargain.  At the same
time, he wants to complete it.  There is some
obstacle in the way because I am prepared to
pay him more money than any one else, and he
wants all the cash he can get.  Now, if it were
worth my while, I could get to the bottom
of this business very soon, but you don't want
sprats on the hook that you have baited for a
whale.  You must find this out for me."

"And if I promise to find this out for you,
what then?"

Frobisher wrote the words "five hundred
pounds" under the name of Paul Lopez on the
cheque and appended his queer, cramped signature.
As he lay back with a smile, Lopez coolly reached
over, tore the cheque from the counterfoil and
placed it in his pocket.

"Good," he said.  "The money is already mine.
I've had a few of your cheques in my time, and I
have earned every one of them.  I have earned
this already."

Frobisher displayed no surprise or emotion
of any kind.  Lopez was worth his money, and he
never boasted.  The information needed would
be cheap at the price.  He waited for Lopez to
speak.

"The Shan of Koordstan is generally hard up,"
the latter said.  "He is a precious rascal, too.  I
have already dogged and watched him because he
might be a profitable investment some day."

"Precisely," Frobisher chuckled, "precisely
as you have studied me.  Well, you are quite
welcome to all the milk you can extract from this
cocoanut.  You are interesting me, beloved spy."

"Koordstan has been unlucky lately in his
many dealings.  The tribes are fighting shy of
him.  And in the depths of his despair he found a
friend and philanthropist in Aaron Benstein.  In
other words, he must have given Benstein really
good security for his money.  Mind, I am speaking
from personal knowledge."

"You are earning your money," Frobisher
croaked.  "Do you know what the security is?"

"I know that it isn't the concession you are
after, because there is another game on over that.
And Benstein is not likely to say anything, nor
is the Shan, for that matter.  But one thing is
wrapped up in another, and there you are.
Shall I show you how I have earned all that cheque?"

"Rascal, you are puzzling me.  If Benstein
had any kind of weakness——"

"He has.  He is the hardest man in London, the
most clever and greedy financier I know, and yet
he has his weak point.  He is old and his mind is
not what it was.  And he has a young wife, a
kind of beautiful slave that he has purchased of
recent years.  The fellow is infatuated with her
to the verge of insanity.  She has no heart and
no brains, but cunning and infinite beauty, to
say nothing of an audacity that is thoroughly
Cockney in its way.  I dare say you have seen her?"

Frobisher nodded thoughtfully.  Benstein's
wife was one of the stars of London.  She kept a
*queue* of young men in her box, but no faint
breath of scandal touched her fair fame.  Benstein
was too old to run risks like that.

"We don't seem to be getting any further,"
Frobisher suggested.

"Indeed!  The subtle play of your mind is not
in evidence to-day, and perhaps the morning-coat
has unsettled you.  My friend, men tell their
wives everything—everything."

"Not every man," Frobisher said, with one of
his wicked grins.  "I don't, for instance."

"If you did your wife wouldn't stay here for a
day," Lopez said coolly.  "Pshaw, I don't mean
things of that kind; I mean business things,
successful deals, how you have got the best of
somebody else; in fact, the swaggering boasting
that man indulges in before the woman of his choice.
Not a single secret of that kind does Benstein keep
from his wife—he couldn't if he wanted to."

"In other words, Mrs. Benstein has the secret
that I would give a small fortune to possess?"

"Precisely.  The game is in your own hands,
*mon ami*.  That woman is trying to get into
society.  And, with her natural audacity and the
money she has behind her, she will succeed.  In a
year or so she will be turning her back upon
women who won't look at her now.  Only up to
now she had got hold of the wrong leaders.  But
she is going to your Duchess's to-day.  The Duke
is in Benstein's hands."

"That's a good tip," Frobisher chuckled.
"I'll get an introduction to her."

Lopez bent across the table and lowered his
voice confidentially.

"Get Lady Frobisher to take her up," he
said.  "Quite as great ladies will be doing it before
long.  Mark my words, but Mrs. Benstein will be
the fashion some day.  Nothing will keep her out.
If your wife holds out a helping hand—why,
it seems to me that I shall have more than earned
my money."

Frobisher lay back in his chair, and laughed
silently.  He was quite satisfied that he had
found a most profitable investment for his five
hundred pounds.  In great good-humour he
pressed cigarettes upon Lopez.

"We are a fine couple," he said gaily.  "With
my brain to plot and yours to weave, we might
possess the universe.  Again, it shall be done;
Lady Frobisher shall take up Mrs. Benstein.  Lord,
what a pleasant time I shall have at luncheon!"

He lay back in his chair chuckling and croaking
long after Lopez had departed.  The second
luncheon gong sounded before he rose and made
his way to the dining-room.  Lady Frobisher,
tall and slim and exquisitely patrician, had already
taken her place at the table.  Angela came in a
moment later with a murmured apology for
keeping the others waiting.

"You have both been out?" Frobisher asked
in his politest manner.  "Riding, eh?  Is there
anything new?"

Lady Frobisher was languidly of opinion that
there was nothing fresh.  Most people were
looking fagged and worn out owing to the heat
of the season; she was feeling it herself.

"It's a treat to see some suggestion of the
open country," she said in her languid way.  "For
instance, we met Harold Denvers.  He was like
a whiff of the sea to us."

Frobisher shot a lightning glance at Angela.
Try as she would, she could not keep the colour
from her face.  And in that instant Frobisher
knew the meaning of Angela's secret visit
downstairs a night or two before.  Angela also knew
that he guessed; the flame on her cheek grew
almost painful.

"So he's back," Frobisher said, with a
suppressed chuckle in his voice.  "Don't you ask
him here."

"As if he would come," Angela exclaimed
indignantly.  "I am sure Lady Frobisher would
not do anything of the kind.  She would as soon
ask that impossible Benstein woman!"

A queer light flamed into Frobisher's eyes.
Luck had given him an opening sooner than he
had expected.  He was prepared to lead up to
his point by tortuous means.

"Is there anything impossible in society
nowadays?" he asked.  "Mrs. Benstein is beautiful
and audacious, and her husband is fabulously
rich.  What more could you have?"

"She was actually wearing diamonds this
morning," Angela murmured.

"Well, what of that?  Next year, next week,
it may be the thing to wear diamonds in the
morning.  After all, fashion is dictated by the
tradesman you buy your stockings from, men with
Board School education for the most part.  Ain't
you photographed in evening dress and picture-hats?
After that atrocity any thing is possible.
Mrs. Benstein will be at the Duchess's party to-day."

"Really, my dear Clement, I can't see how
that can possibly interest me."

Frobisher laughed again, and the quick grin
bared his white teeth.  He liked his wife in these
moods, he liked to bring her down from her high
pedestal at times.

"It means a good deal to you," he said gaily.
"*Ma chérie*, I have a mood to take Mrs. Benstein
up.  The woman fascinates me, and I
would fain study her like one of my valued
orchids.  Of course, I don't make a point of it,
but I shall be glad if you will get an introduction
to Mrs. Benstein, and ask her to your fancy dance
next week."

"Clement, you must be mad to insult me by
such a suggestion!"

"Not in the least, my dear.  The Duchess is
complacent, and why not you?  It is my whim;
I have said it.  Or perhaps you would prefer
me to bring the lady to you this afternoon."

"If that woman ever sets foot in this house,"
Lady Frobisher gasped.  "If she ever comes
here——"

"You will be polite and amiable to her, I am
sure," Frobisher said in a purring voice, though his
eyes flashed like little pin-points of flame.  "Or
perhaps I had better ask the Bensteins to dinner.
Sit down."

Lady Frobisher had risen, and Sir Clement did
the same thing.  Angela sat there breathlessly.
With a slow, gliding movement Frobisher crept
round the table to his wife's side.  He took her
two hands in his and gazed steadily into her face.
Her eyes were dilated, her lips were parted, but she
said nothing.  Just for an instant she had one
glance into the flame of passion and evil that
Frobisher would have called his soul.

"You are not going to make a scene," he said,
in the same caressing, silken voice that made
Angela long to rise and lay a whip about his
shoulders.  "After all, Mrs. Benstein has a great
pull over many women that you nod and smile to
and shake hands with across afternoon tea-tables—she
is quite respectable.  Besides, this is part of
my scheme, and I expect to be—well, we won't
say obeyed.  As a personal favour, I ask you to
meet me in this matter."

Lady Frobisher dropped into a chair and her
lips moved.  Her voice came weak and from a
long way off.

"I'll do as you wish," she said.  "Of course,
it would be far better if somebody else——"

Frobisher skipped from the room whistling an
air as he went.  The sudden grin flashed all his
teeth gleamingly.

"She is going to cry," he muttered, "and I
cannot stand a woman's tears.  If there is one
thing that cuts me to my shrinking soul, it is
the sight of a lovely woman's tears."





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.. _`BORROWED PLUMES`:

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   CHAPTER XI.


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   BORROWED PLUMES.

.. vspace:: 2

Frobisher's highly sensitive nature
demanded a flower as a little something to
soothe his nerves.  He passed into the
conservatory where the Cardinal Moth was flaming
overhead, he climbed like an over-dressed monkey
up the extending ladder, and broke off a spray
of the blooms.  He patted them gently as he fixed
the cluster in the silk lapel of his coat.  Hafid looked
in and announced that the car was ready.  Hafid's
face was white and set like that of a drug victim.
Frobisher was at his most brilliant and best
as the car flashed away.  Presently the scene
changed from the hot air and dusty glare of the
streets, to green lawns and old trees and the soft
music of a band of some colour and doubtful
Hungarian origin.  But there was the clear flow
and the throbbing melody of it, and Frobisher's
gloved hand beat gently to time.  There were little
knots of kaleidoscope colours, graceful and
harmonious in graceful shades and the emerald green
for a background.  Here, too, was the Duchess
with a swift, pecky smile for each guest, as if she
had been carelessly wound up for the occasion,
and something had gone wrong with the spring.

Frobisher slipped in and out of the various
groups with his hands behind him.  There were
still certain people who seemed to be smelling
something unpleasant as the wicked little baronet
passed, but this only added zest and piquancy to
his studies.  It was some time before he found
the object of his search—a study in yellow, and
a large black hat nodding with graceful plumes.
Something round her slim, white neck seemed to
stream and dazzle, there was another flash of
blue fire on her breast.

Yet the diamonds did not seem in the least out
of place on Mrs. Benstein.  There was something
hard and shaky about her beauty that called for
them—blue black hair drawn back in a wave from
her forehead, a complexion like old ivory, and
eyes suggestive of mystery.  Frobisher thought
of the serpent of old Nile as he looked at her
critically.

A marvellously beautiful woman beyond all
question, a woman without the faintest suggestion
of self-consciousness.  Yet she was practically
alone in that somewhat polyglot gathering, and
she knew that most people there were holding aloof
from her.  Frobisher strolled up in the most
natural way in the world.  He had had one or two
dealings with Benstein, had dined with the man,
in fact, but he had contrived not to see
Mrs. Benstein in public till to-day.  He dropped into
a chair and began to talk.

"You feel any attraction to this kind of
thing?" he asked.

"Well, not much," was the candid reply.  "I
came here out of curiosity.  The Duchess would
not have asked me, only that my husband is
useful to the Duke.  So you have got a Cardinal
Moth?"

Frobisher fairly gasped, though he dexterously
recovered himself.  He smiled into the dark,
swimming eyes of his companion.  Their strange
mystery irritated as well as fascinated him.

"And what can you possibly know about the
Cardinal Moth?" he asked.

"Well, I know a great many things.  You see
my father was a merchant in the Orient, and my
mother had some of the Parsee about her.  We
gravitate to strange things.  But I see you have
the Cardinal Moth, and, what is more, I know
where you got it from."

The last words came with a quick indrawing
of the breath that faintly suggested a hiss.

"Paul Lopez is by way of being a relation of
mine," Mrs. Benstein went on.  "At one time we
were engaged to be married.  I was much
annoyed when he changed his mind.  Sir Clement,
why do you choose to be so amiable to-day?"

The quick audacity of the question stirred
Frobisher's admiration.  This woman was going
to get on.  With his fine instinct, Frobisher
decided to be frank.  Frankness would pay here.

"Well, I am a great admirer of courage," he
said.  "I admire your splendid audacity in
coming here in broad daylight wearing diamonds."

A wonderful smile filled the eyes of the listener.

"Why shouldn't I wear them if I like?" she
demanded.  "The stones are wonderfully becoming
to me.  And, after all, it is only a matter of
what these chattering parrots here call fashion.
See how they are all watching me, imagine the
things they are saying about me."

"And I am quite sure you do not mind in the least?"

"Not I.  I must be doing something out of
the common, something daring and original."

"It was anything but original, but certainly
very daring, for one so beautiful to marry a man
as—er, mature, as Aaron Benstein," Frobisher
murmured.  It was an audacious speech, and
Mrs. Benstein smiled.  "You might have had a
duke or even a popular actor."

"Well, you see, I was sick of being poor.  It is
not my fault that I was born an artist with a
second-hand clothes shop in Hoxton for a home.
I don't look the part, do I?  And Aaron came
and fairly worshipped the ground I stood on.
Except for money, and the making of it, he is
perfectly childish."

"Therefore he tells you all his secrets like the
dutiful husband that he is?"

"Oh, yes.  I find some of the secrets useful.
There is the Countess of Castlemanor yonder, who
has stared at me in a way that would be vulgar
in the common walk of life.  And yet, if I went
up and whispered a word or two in her ear, she
would gladly drive me home in her car."

Frobisher laughed silently.  Here was a woman
after his own heart—a woman who studied society
and despised it.  And Frobisher was going to make
use of her, as he made use of everybody, only
this was going to be one of his finest efforts.  Isa
Benstein was no ordinary pawn in the game.

"I should like to see you do it," he chuckled.

"What is the use?  She is a poor creature,
despite her title and her marvellous taste in
hats.  Can't you give me a similar hold on
Lady Frobisher?  There would be some fun in
humbling her."

Again Frobisher laughed.  The splendid
audacity of the woman fascinated him.  The
people he made use of as a rule were not
amusing.  And here was a power.  It pleased
his vanity to know that he was bending a power
like this to his will.

"I am angry with myself to think of what I
have lost," he said.  "My dear Mrs. Benstein, it
can all be arranged without annoyance to the
lady who does me the honour to rule my household.
I will bring my wife to you presently, and
she shall ask you to her fancy dance next week."

"That will doubtless be a great pleasure to
Lady Frobisher," Mrs. Benstein smiled.  "I shall
like her, but I shall like Miss Lyne a great deal
better.  And if you try to force her to marry that
detestable little Arnott I shall do my best to
spoil your hand."

Frobisher's teeth flashed in one of his uneasy
grins.  He felt like a man who has discovered
a new volcano quite unexpectedly.  What an
amazing lot this woman knew, to be sure; what
an extraordinary fascination she must exercise
over her doting husband.  He followed her glance
now to a distant seat under a tree where Angela
and Harold Denvers were talking together.

"Would you like to match your wits against
mine at that stake?" he asked.

Mrs. Benstein declined the challenge.  She was
only a woman after all, she declared.

"I like the look of the girl," she said thoughtfully.
"She's honest and true.  And he's a man
all through.  Now go and bring Lady Frobisher
to me, and we will talk prettily together, and she
shall show me how much it is possible for a society
woman to hate another woman without showing it.
You want to make use of me or some subtle purpose,
but it suits my mood for the present to comply."

Frobisher went off chuckling to himself.  The
creature was absolutely charming, so clever and
subtle.  But she was neither subtle nor clever
enough to see his game, Frobisher flattered
himself.  In a profound state of boredom Lady
Frobisher was nibbling a tepid strawberry dipped
in soppy cream.  She was tired to death, she said,
and wanted to go home.

"It's a tonic you need," Frobisher said, with
one of his quick grins.  "Come along, and have
your mental shower-bath.  I'm going to introduce
Mrs. Benstein to you."

Lady Frobisher rose stiffly.  Her little white
teeth were clenched passionately.  But she made
no protest.  Under the eyes of fashionable London
she crossed over to the place where Mrs. Benstein
was seated.  She knew perfectly well that her
action would be the theme of general conversation
at a hundred dinner-tables to-night, but she
moved along now as if she were sweeping the
primrose path of conventionality with her lace
gown.  There was some little seed of consolation
in the fact that Mrs. Benstein made no attempt
to shake hands.  On the whole, she was perhaps
the coolest and most collected of the two.

"My wife very much desires to make your
acquaintance," Frobisher said in his smoothest
manner.  "Didn't you say something about a
fancy-dress ball, Norah?"

Lady Frobisher was understood to murmur
something that suggested pleasure and a wish
fulfilled.  She was not quite sure whether she had
proffered the invitation or not, but it was a small
matter, as Frobisher was not likely to permit the
card to be omitted.

"It is very good of you, and I shall come with
pleasure," Mrs. Benstein said.  "I am not sure,
but I fancy that society is going to amuse me.  Of
course, it is all a matter of time, though I could
have pushed my way here before.  You see, the
Duchess asked me here of her own volition.  My
dear Lady Frobisher, do you see how Lady
Castlemanor is glaring at you?  Yes, I will do it.  I will
go and dine with that lady as honoured guest on
Monday night.  And you shall come and see my
triumph."

Lady Frobisher turned feebly to her husband
for support, but he was too frankly enjoying the
performance to interfere.  Here was a new farce,
a new source of amusement.

"You will be a success," he predicted.  "You
must come to the dance as 'diamonds' or
something of that kind.  You would carry off any
amount of jewels, and nothing becomes you
better.  You see we are already becoming the
centre of attraction."

People were passing by with studied inattention.
A great society dame paused and put up
her glasses.  In anybody else the stare would have
been rude.  The great lady's face flushed crimson
with anger, much as if her own cook had been
found masquerading in that select assembly.
She took a step forward, paused, and then walked
hurriedly away.  Frobisher turned away to hide
the mirth that he found difficult to control.  He
had come here practically on business, therefore
the unexpected pleasure was all the more
enjoyable.  With a bow and a smile Lady Frobisher
turned and took her husband's arm.

"Well, I suppose you are satisfied now," she
said, with a fierce indrawing of her breath.  "With
your saturnine cleverness, perhaps you will tell
me why the Marchioness behaved so strangely."

"The thing is obvious," Frobisher chuckled.
"Benstein is a money-lender in a big way, old plate
and jewels, and all that sort of thing.  And he's
got all her ladyship's diamonds.  Probably takes
the best of them home and shows his wife.  Being
weak and doting, she has them to play with.
And Mrs. Benstein is wearing the old lady's
collar and star this afternoon.  And people say
there's no comedy in society!"

Lady Frobisher turned away mortified and cut
to the quick.  And this was the class of woman
that she had actually asked to her dance, one of
the great social functions of the season!  Frobisher
threw himself into a deck-chair and gave way to
his own amused thoughts.

"Clever fellow, Lopez," he chuckled.  "On the
whole, he earned that cheque.  But I don't quite
see what he meant by saying that Mrs. Benstein—by
gad, I've got it!  Lopez, you are a genius!
It's any money that my grip on the Shan is in
Benstein's house, and she can get it."

Frobisher rose and strolled back to Mrs. Benstein's
side.  It would have been impossible to
guess from his face of the fiendish elation that
burnt within him.

"I've been thinking over that jewel idea I
gave you," he said.  "Are you disposed towards it?"

"Yes," Mrs. Benstein said, thoughtfully.  "I
am very favourably disposed towards it indeed."

"Then wear rubies," Frobisher urged.  "Rubies
will suit you splendidly.  I have the greatest
fancy to see you decked out in rubies.  If you
can get hold of some large ones.  I'll come round
and have tea with you to-morrow, and we can
discuss the matter thoroughly."





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.. _`A MODEL HUSBAND`:

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   CHAPTER XII.


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   A MODEL HUSBAND.

.. vspace:: 2

Isa Benstein drove in her closed car
thoughtfully homewards, a little less
conscious than usual of the attractions caused
wherever she went.  On the whole she had enjoyed
herself; she had got on far better than she had
expected.  It was characteristic of her
self-reliance and strength of character that she had
gone to the Duchess's party quite alone and
knowing nobody there, whilst she herself was
familiar by sight and reputation to everybody
who would be present.

She had directed her husband to obtain that
invitation out of a pure spirit of curiosity.  She
had read paragraphs touching the great social
function in the smart papers, and Isa Benstein
had smiled to herself as she remembered that
but for her husband and his money-bags the
great gathering could not possibly have taken
place at all.

By instinct, by intuition, by observation, Isa
had pretty well gauged modern society.  She
had seen it at Ascot and Cowes, at Hurlingham
and Covent Garden, but as yet she had never
actually been in it.  And now her first experience
was over.

She had almost come to the conclusion that
the game was not worth the candle, when Frobisher
came up and spoke to her.  With her natural
astuteness she had not long to see that Frobisher
had some intention of making use of her.  That
being so, the game should be mutual.  Not for
one moment was Mrs. Benstein deceived—by
some magnetic process Lady Frobisher had been
forced to be polite, and ask her to that fancy-dress
ball.  Mrs. Benstein had smiled, but she had
seen the rooted repugnance in Lady Frobisher's
face, the constrained look in her eyes.

"I wonder how he managed it?" she asked
herself as she drove along.  "And what does that
little creature with the brow of a Memnon and
the mouth of a tom-cat want to get out of me?
Money is at the root of most things, but it can't
be money in that quarter."

Berkeley Square was reached at length, and for
the moment Mrs. Benstein banished Frobisher
from her mind.  All she required now was a cup
of tea and a cigarette.  Most society women
would have sacrificed a great deal to know the
secret of Mrs. Benstein's complexion, but the secret
was a simple one—she ate sparingly, and she
never touched intoxicating drinks in her life.
The tea was waiting in the drawing-room, the
water was boiling on the spirit-kettle.  A slight,
dark man rose as Mrs. Benstein entered.

"I'll take a cup with you, Isa," he said.
"Nobody makes such tea as yours."

"Paul Lopez," the hostess said.  "I have not
been honoured like this since the day when
you and I——"

"Agreed to part.  Who was wise over that
business, Isa?  No sugar, please.  I loved you
too well——"

"Never!  You are incapable of loving anybody,
Paul.  I gave you the whole of my affection—and
a scarlet, flaming plant it was—and you
trampled it down and killed it.  Not so much as
a cutting remains.  And why?  Because you
were ambitious and I had no money."

Lopez waved the accusation aside with his
Apostle spoon.

"It was the wiser part," he said calmly.  "I
shall never be rich like Aaron, for instance, though
I have ten times his intellect.  My love of perilous
adventure prevents that.  And when I look
round me, I am quite pleased with myself.
Persian carpets, Romneys, Knellers, Lelys, Louis
Quinze furniture, Cellini silver, even Apostle
spoons.  Have you got a complete set?"

"So I understand," Isa Benstein said carelessly.

"And there you have the keynote of this
wonderful house.  The exquisite pleasure you
must have had in the collecting of all these
beautiful things!  And yourself?"

Mrs. Benstein smiled queerly as she bent over
the teapot.  When the time came she was going
to be even with this man, though, characteristically,
she had no flaming anger against him.  She
had loved him once, and let him see it, and he
had weighed the possibilities, and coldly told her
it was not good enough, or words to that effect.
The secret was theirs alone.

"You cannot say that you are not happy,"
Lopez said after a long pause.

"Well, no.  Happiness is but a negative
quality, after all.  I am probably a great deal
happier than if I had married a scoundrel like
yourself, for instance.  That is Aaron's voice in
the hall.  I suppose you have come to see him
on business, or you would not be here at all."

Lopez gravely accepted his dismissal.  All this
wonderful beauty and intellect would have been
his had he at one time chosen to take it.  Slowly
and thoughtfully Mrs. Benstein went up to dress
for dinner.  She chose her gown and her jewels and
her flowers with the utmost care; she might
have been going to a state concert or dance, from
the nicety of her selection.

"Madame is going out to-night?" the maid suggested.

"Madame is going to do nothing of the kind,"
Isa said, with one of her seductive smiles.  "I
am going to stay at home and dine *tête-à-tête* with
my husband.  Always look as nice to your
husband, Minon, as to other people.  You will
find the trouble an excellent investment."

Benstein was late.  He had been detained so
long that Isa was in the dining-room before he
arrived breathlessly and full of apologies.  With
his fat, fair face, and heavy, pendulous lips, he
made an almost repulsive contrast to his wife.
His dress-suit was shabby and ill-fitting, suggesting
that it had been bought second-hand like his
large pumps.  The red silk socks bore a pleasing
resemblance to the cyclist's trousers when
confined to the leg with those inevitable clips; they
bulged over at the ankles.  Benstein wore no
diamonds; he had not even a large stud in his
crumpled shirt.  It was a great deprivation,
and the financier mourned over the fact in secret.
But Isa was inexorable on that point.  The man
was hideously common enough, without jewels.
Besides, Isa's interference in the matter was by
way of being a compliment.  It showed at least
that she took some sort of interest in the man
she had married.

"Kept by business," Benstein wheezed.  He
raised his dyed eyebrows.  He flattered himself
that the dye took from his seventy years, whereas
the deception merely added to them.  "Nice
you look!  Lovely!"

His little eyes appraised her.  Despite his
many limitations, Benstein had a keen love of
the beautiful—*qua* beautiful.  Isa stood before
him a vision of loveliness in a dress of green
touched here and there with gold.  The shaded
lights rendered her eyes all the more brilliant.

"Give me a kiss," Benstein said hoarsely.
"When you look like that I can refuse you nothing.
I am getting into my dotage, men say.  Well,
perhaps.  Good thing some of them can't see me now."

The elaborate dinner proceeded in that perfect
Tudor dining-room.  Not a single article of
furniture was there that lacked historic interest.
The old oak and silver were priceless, and every
bit of it had been collected under Isa Benstein's
own eye.  No dealer had ever succeeded in
imposing on her.

The silk slips were drawn at length from the
polished dark oak with the wonderful red tints
in it, so that the nodding flowers were reflected
from a lake of thin blood.  Here and there the
decanters gleamed, a Tudor model of a Spanish
galleon mounted on wheels was pushed along the
table, its various compartments filled with all
kinds of cigarettes.

"No, a Virginian for me," Isa said, as the
servants withdrew.  The drawing-room was a
dream of beauty, but she preferred the dining-room.
For restfulness and form and artistic
completeness there was no room like the Tudor hall,
she declared.  "Give me good, honest tobacco."

"How did you get on to-day?" Benstein asked.

"I didn't.  I sat and watched the procession.
Sir Clement Frobisher came and made himself
agreeable to me, and so did his wife—under
compulsion.  But she asked me to her dance,
and I am going."

"Hope that they won't ask me, too," Benstein
said uneasily.

"You need not go, in any case; in fact, I'd
rather you didn't.  I've been scheming out my
dress, Aaron; do you happen to be strong in
rubies just now?"

Benstein nodded his huge head and smiled.
More or less, he had the jewels of the great world
in his possession.  It was his whim to keep them
at home.  He trusted nobody, not even a bank.
Besides, nearly every day brought something
neat and ingenious in the way of a jewel fraud.

"I can rig you out in anything," he said.
"Yes, I could pretty well cover you in rubies.
They're all on diamonds just for the moment, so
that they bring their emeralds and rubies to
redeem the white stones.  Wonder what some of
those big swells would say if they knew you had
got their jewels to wear, Isa?"

Isa smiled at some amusing recollection, but
she held her peace.  Humour was not Benstein's
strong point.  He puffed away to the library,
followed by his wife, and once there locked the
door.  Here was a large iron sheet that, being
opened, disclosed something in the nature of a
strong-room.  There were scores of tiny pigeon-holes,
each filled with cases and bags all carefully
noted and numbered, for method was Benstein's
strong point.

"More papers," Isa exclaimed.  "A fresh lot since
yesterday.  Is it some new business, Aaron?"

"Count Lefroy," Benstein wheezed.  "Valuable
concessions from the Shan of Koordstan.
Shouldn't wonder if those papers don't become
worth half a million.  Queer-looking things.
Like to see them?"

Isa expressed a proper curiosity on the point.
The papers were in Hindustani and English,
with some cramped-looking signature and the
impression of a seal at the bottom.

"Those signatures are both forgeries," Mrs. Benstein
said, after careful examination.  "And
that seal, I feel quite sure, is a clumsy imitation
of something better."

"Doesn't matter if they are," Benstein said
without emotion.  "If they are real, I only get
a finger in the pie; if they are forged I bag the
whole of the pastry.  Let me once get Lefroy
under my thumb like that, and I'll make a pocket
borough of Koordstan.  Leave your Aaron alone
for business, my dear.  Now let us see what
we can do in the way of rubies, though I am a
great fool to——"

"It's too late in the day to think of that," Isa
said sharply.  "Turn them out."

The shabby cases began to yield their glittering
contents.  The electrics glowed upon the piled-up
mass of rubies, bracelets, brooches, tiaras,
armlets—the loot of the East, it seemed to be.  Isa's
slim fingers played with the shining strings lovingly.

"This is even better than I expected," she
murmured.  "I shall be able to trim my dress
with them, I can have them all over my skirt,
I can cover my bodice.  I am going simply as
'rubies.'  Give me that tiara."

She placed the glittering crown on her head, she
draped her neck and arms with the beautiful
stones.  Benstein gasped, and his little eyes
watered.  Was there ever so lovely a woman
before? he wondered.  When Isa looked at him
like that he could refuse her nothing.  It was
criminally weak, but——

"The thing is almost complete," Isa said.
"Now haven't you got something out of the
common, some black swan amongst rubies that I
could attach to the centre of my forehead,
something to blaze like the sun?  Aaron, you've got
it; you are concealing something from me."

The financier laughed weakly, still dazzled by
that show of beauty.  In a dazed way he unlocked
a little compartment and took a huge stone from
a leather bag.  His hands trembled as he handed
it to his wife.

"You can try it," he said hoarsely; "you
can see how it goes.  But you can't have that to
wear, no, no.  If anything happened to it, they
would make an international business of it, my
life wouldn't be worth a day's purchase.  You are
not to ask me for that, no, no."

He meandered on in a senile kind of way.
With a low cry Isa fastened on the gem.  She
pressed it to her white forehead, where it blazed
and sparkled.  The effect was electric, wonderful.
She stood before a mirror fascinated and
entranced by her own beauty.

"I shall have it," she said.  "I couldn't go
without this, Aaron.  You are going to have it set
into the finest of gold wires for me.  Come, I won't
even ask you where you got it from.  And from
what you say, nobody in England is likely to
recognise it.  Aaron, do, do."

Her smile was subtle and pleading.  Nobody
could have withstood it.  Benstein gabbled
something, his cheeks shook.

"Oh, Lord," he groaned.  "If anything does
happen!  Well, well, my darling!  Unlock the
door and stay here till I come back.  What artful
creatures you women are!  My dear, my dear.
Positively I must go into the dining-room and
treat myself to a liqueur-brandy!"





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.. _`THE QUEEN OF THE RUBIES`:

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   CHAPTER XIII.


.. class:: center medium bold

   THE QUEEN OF THE RUBIES.

.. vspace:: 2

The faint sobbing of violins sounded from
somewhere, giving the artistic suggestion
of being far off, the dominant note of the
leader hung high on the air.  Now and then a
door opened somewhere, letting in the splitting
crack of Piccadilly, the raucous voices of
news-boys more or less mendaciously.  Sir Clement
Frobisher stood before the glass in his smoking-room
setting his white tie.  Over his shoulder he
could see the dark, smileless face of Lopez
looking in.

"What do you want here to-night?" he asked.
"What are you thinking about me?"

"I'd give a good round sum—if I had it—to know
what you are thinking about," Lopez retorted.

"Money isn't worth it.  I was wondering if I
really looked like a waiter, after all."

"Well, you don't.  There is something too
infernally sardonic and devilish about your head
for that.  May I take a cigarette?  I dare say
you wonder how I got here to-night?  I—well, I
just walked in.  That kind of audacity always
pays.  Also you wonder why I came."

"Indeed I don't.  You want me to lend you one
hundred pounds.  What do you do with your
money, friend Lopez?  Not that it is any business
of mine."

"That being so, you have answered your own
question," Lopez said dryly.  "Every man has
his weakness, even the strongest chain has its
breaking-point.  Let me have one hundred
pounds.  And pay yourself ten times over, as
you always do for your accommodation.  Did
I earn my last five hundred pounds?"

"Indeed you did," Frobisher said frankly.  "A
wonderful woman, Mrs. Benstein."

"About the most wonderful I ever met.  None
of your dark schemers about her, none of your
flashing eyes and figures drawn up to their full
height.  But there is the rare mind in its beautiful
setting.  You are going to make use of that
woman?  We shall see."

Both men smiled meaningly.  The plaintive
wail of the violins rose and fell, from the great
hall beyond came the murmur of voices.  Lady
Frobisher's great function had commenced.
Frobisher glanced significantly at the clock.  He
was in no fancy-dress himself, presumedly he was
disguised as an honest man, as Lopez suggested.
He laughed heartily at the gibe, and pushed Lopez
outside the door with a cheque in his pocket.

Quite a crowd of cloaked and dominoed women
had gathered there.  Lady Frobisher had
reverted to the old idea of a masked ball and the
uncovering after the last dance before supper.
The masks appeared to be walking about as they
generally did, for Shepherd strolled up to Chloe
and Adonis to Aphrodite in a manner that might
have suggested collusion to the sophisticated
mind.  One tall woman, closely draped, touched
Frobisher on the arm as he threaded between the
silken mysteries.

"I have no flowers," she said.  "My man
stupidly dropped mine and somebody trod on
them.  Take me to your conservatory, Sir
Clement, and give me my choice."

Frobisher offered his arm; he did not need
to ask who the speaker was.  Those low, thrilling
tones, with the touch of power in them, could
only have belonged to Isa Benstein.  There was
nobody in the conservatory which was devoted to
orchids, and nobody was likely to be, for that
part of the house was forbidden ground.
Mrs. Benstein looked out from under her cloud—only
her eyes and nose could be seen.

"May I not be privileged to see your dress?"
Frobisher pleaded.

"Certainly not," Isa Benstein laughed.  "Why
should you be specially favoured?  Get me two
long sprays of orchid.  I shall be content with
nothing less than the Cardinal Moth."

It was something in the nature of extracting
a tooth, but Frobisher mounted the steps and
tore down the two sprays asked for.  Isa Benstein
whipped them under the folds of her cloak.  There
was a subtle fragrance about her that a younger
man than Frobisher would have found heady.

"I must fly to the dressing-room," she said.
"And then to pay my respects to my hostess.
Do you think that she is likely to recognise me?"

Frobisher thought not.  He lingered over his
cigarette, making not the slightest attempt to
play the host, though the dance was in full swing
now, and the house echoed to the thud of feet in
motion.  At the same time, Frobisher was looking
forward to plenty of amusement presently, before
supper, when everybody unmasked.  He grew a
little tired of his own company presently and
strolled into the ballroom.  There the electrics
were festooned and garlanded with ropes of roses,
the plaintive band could not be seen behind a
jungle of feathery ferns, a bewildering kaleidoscope
of colour looped and twisted and threaded in a
perfect harmony.

A few of the younger and consequently more
*blasé* men lined the walls.  A cavalier of sorts
with a long, thin scar on the side of his lean head
was watching the proceedings.  Frobisher touched
him on the arm.

"Not dancing, Lefroy?" he said.  "Are you
past all those fleeting joys?"

"It's an old wound in my thigh," Lefroy
explained.  He was just a little chagrined to
discover that his host had so easily detected him.
Frobisher's superior cleverness always angered
him.  "It is my amusement to spot the various
women, and I have located most of them.  But
there is one!  Ciel!"

"One that even meets with your critical
approval!  Good.  She must be a pearl among
women.  Point her out to me and let us see if
our tastes agree."

Lefroy's eyes glittered behind their mask as
they swept over the reeling crowd.  A moment or
two later and he just touched Frobisher on the arm.

"Here she comes," he whispered.  "On the
arm of General Marriott.  No mistaking his limp,
and his white hair like a file of soldiers on parade.
What a costume and what a cost!  That scarlet
band across her brow over the mask is wonderfully
effective.  That woman is an artist, Frobisher.
And she has the most perfect figure in Europe.
Who is she?"

Frobisher made no reply; he was studying
Isa Benstein's costume—lustrous black from
head to foot, with white seams fairly covered with
rubies.  There were rubies all over her corsage,
bands of them up her arm, a serpent necklace
round the milky way of her throat.  The whole
thing was daring, bizarre, and yet artistic to a
point.  The scarlet band across the brows struck
a strong and vivid note.  The rubies were not
so bright as the woman's eyes.  As she came
nearer the tangle of blossom across her bosom
showed up clearly.  Lefroy gasped.

"A mystery in a mystery," he said.  "She
is wearing the Cardinal Moth.  Who is she?"

Frobisher laughed, and protested that each
must solve the problem for himself.  He liked to
puzzle and bewilder Lefroy, and he was doing
both effectively at the present moment.  The
Count would have liked to take the little man
by the shoulders and shake him heartily.

"I believe you know who she is," he growled.
"Come, Frobisher, gratify my curiosity."

"I will refresh it if you like," Frobisher said
with one of his sudden grins.  "I am not positively
sure, but I fancy I can give a pretty shrewd guess
as to the identity of Madame Incognita.  But
would it be fair to give her secret away before
supper-time?  Patience, my fire-eater."

The lady of the rubies passed along leaning on
the arm of her companion.  She gave one glance
in Frobisher's direction, and Lefroy looked
eagerly for some sign of recognition.  But the
dark eyes were absolutely blank so far as the
master of the house was concerned.

Lefroy turned and followed the couple in front.
As Frobisher lounged back to the smoking-room
for another cigarette, he almost ran into his wife.

As hostess she was wearing no mask.  Her
beautiful face was just a little set and tired.

"Seems to be all right," Frobisher croaked.
"They appear to be enjoying themselves.  And
yet half of them would like better to come to my
funeral.  Some pretty dresses here, but one
head and shoulders over the others.

"You mean the ruby guise," Lady Frobisher
exclaimed, with some animation.  "Is it not
superb!  So daring, and yet in the best of taste.
Everybody is asking who she is and nobody seems
to know.  I declare I feel quite proud of my mystery."

"An angel unawares," Frobisher laughed
silently.  "You never can tell.  And you mean
to say that you can't guess who it is that is exciting
all this attention?"

Lady Frobisher looked swiftly down into the
face of her husband.  The corrugated grin, the
impish mischief told her a story.  It seemed
very hard that the woman she most desired
to keep in the background was actually creating
the sensation of the evening.

"Mrs. Benstein," she whispered.  "Clement,
do you really think so?"

"My dear, I am absolutely certain of it.  And
why not?  Isn't Mrs. Benstein as well-bred as a
score of American women here to-night?  Doesn't
she carry a long pedigree in that lovely face of
hers?  Some folks here to-night suffer from a
pedigree so old that even their grandfathers are lost
in the mists of antiquity.  What short-sighted
creatures you women are!  Can't you see that a
creature so rich and daring and clever as
Mrs. Benstein will be riding on the crest of the wave
within a year?  And you will gain kudos from the
mere fact that your house saw her début into
'society'—Heaven save the mark!"

Lady Frobisher had no more to say.  There was
a great deal of cynical truth in Frobisher's words.
Mrs. Benstein was going to be a brilliant success as
far as the men were concerned, therefore her
presence at the assemblies of the smart set would
become almost necessary.  Lefroy came back at
the same time, having learnt little or nothing in
the refreshment room.  Lady Frobisher might
have gratified his curiosity if he had asked her,
only she gave him no opportunity.  She detested
the man thoroughly; with her fine instinct she
had detected the tiger under his handsome,
swaggering exterior.

"No luck?" Frobisher laughed.  "Well, it is
nearly twelve o'clock, and then you will know.
Come with me and smoke a cigarette till the
clock strikes.  It will soothe your nerves.  A small
soda and a drop of 1820 brandy, eh?  Don't
give my general run of guests that liqueur."

Lefroy nodded carelessly.  He would have
it appear that he had dismissed the matter from
his mind.  But he had finished his cigarette
and brandy as the clock chimed the midnight
hour, and then, with a fine assumption of
indifference, he returned to the ballroom.  The band
was playing something weird from Greig, the
guests stopped just where they stood, and each
cast their masks upon the floor.

The swashbuckler was in luck, so it seemed to
him, for the lady of the rubies stood smiling by
the side of her military escort just opposite.
The scarlet band had gone with the mask, revealing
a fillet of rubies round the smooth white brow,
a fillet with one huge ruby in the middle, so large
and blazing that Lefroy stood aghast.  He
staggered back, and something like a stammering
oath escaped him.  The vulgarism was lost for
the moment, and people congregated round the
stranger.  That many people there did not know
who Mrs. Benstein was only gave piquancy to the
situation.

"My God!" Lefroy muttered, "who is she?
Where did she get it from?  It's the real thing.  I
would swear to it amongst a million imitations.
And I dare swear that, despite his air of mystery,
Frobisher——  But he must not see it, I must
prevent that, anyway."

Lefroy hastened back to the smoking-room.
His limbs were trembling under him now, a little
moisture broke out on his forehead and trickled
down his face.  He had made a discovery that
wrenched even his iron nerves.  And at any cost
Frobisher must not know.

He was smoking and sipping brandy as Lefroy
entered.  If he saw anything strange or strained
about the face of Count Lefroy, he did not betray
the fact.  He looked up gaily.

"Come to fetch me?" he asked.  "Want me to
see the lady of the rubies?  Well, was the face
worthy of the setting?  Did you recognise her?"

"Never saw her in my life before," Lefroy
said hoarsely.  He stammered on, saying anything
to gain time, anything to keep Frobisher where he
was.  "I've lost interest in the whole thing.
Let's stay here and smoke, and talk about old
times.  What do you say?"

Frobisher said nothing.  He studied Lefroy's
white face intently.  Outside was a babel of
laughter and chatter and the swish of drapery.
A clear, calm voice announced a late visitor.

"His Highness the Shan of Koordstan," the
footman said.

Frobisher glanced at Lefroy's face.  In itself
it was a tragedy.





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.. _`"UNEASY LIES THE HEAD——"`:

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   CHAPTER XIV.


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   "UNEASY LIES THE HEAD——"

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As a matter of fact, His Highness the Shan of
Koordstan had not intended to go to
Lady Frobisher's dance at all, though he
had been graciously pleased to accept the
invitation.  His present intention was to go to bed
early and be a little more careful for the future.
There was a shakiness about the ruler of Koordstan
that told its own tale, a shakiness that would
not have conduced to his popularity with his
subjects in the Far East.

An interview with a recently-arrived minister
of his had changed his plans entirely.  In place of
bed he had a cold bath and a cup of strong coffee,
and sat down, as far as his aching head would
allow him, to review the situation.  The final
outcome was a fit of utter despair and an express
letter to Harold Denvers, who fortunately was
at home and ready to respond to the invitation.

The Eastern potentate was smoking moodily
as he arrived.  Harold significantly declined the
offer of refreshment of a spirituous description.

"Meaning that I have had enough already,"
the Shan said moodily.  "But I'm sober as a
judge now, had enough to make me.  The shocking
luck I've had lately!"

He tossed a cigarette across to Denvers, and
lighted a fresh one of his own.

"So I sent you to give me a leg up if you can.
You are the only honest man of the lot.  Denvers,
I'm in a fine mess over the Blue Stone.  If I
don't produce it at once I'm done for.  It would
be madness for me to show my face at home again."

"Somebody has discovered that your Highness
has parted with it?"

"That's it.  Lefroy is the rogue in the play.
The game is Koordstan; for years he has been
trying to get rid of me and put my cousin in my
place.  Even my own ministers are against me.
And now I feel positive that Lefroy has given me
away.  They don't ask me to show the stone, or
accuse me of parting with it—they are too deep
for that.  A minister comes with a lot of literature
which he calls important documents of State
which require to be sealed immediately.  That
rascal has been in my cousin's pay for years.
And the worst of it is, the whole thing looks so
natural and straightforward that I can't refuse,
especially as everything has my sanction."

"The document must be sealed with the Blue
Stone?" Harold asked.

"Inevitably.  It has been the custom for
generations.  Any deviation from this rule would
do for me at once.  Hamid Khan was here this
afternoon, and I put him off this time by saying
I was ill, which was no more than the truth.
What shall I say when he comes back presently?
If my confounded head did not ache so, I might
find some way out of the difficulty, but as it is——"

The Shan smote his fist passionately on the
table.  Nothing was any good, nothing could
save the situation but the immediate production
of the twenty thousand pounds needed to recover
the jewel from Benstein.  At the present moment
the Shan had no resources whatever; he had
always mortgaged his income, and most of his
personal property had been dissipated in his
brilliant pursuit of pleasure.

"But that's more or less beyond the point,"
he groaned.  "The stone must be redeemed at
once.  I could not possibly put Hamid Khan
off after to-night, even if I can manage that."

"That will give us time to think," said Harold.
"Let your man know that you don't keep so
sacred a jewel at your hotel.  You have heard
of Chancery Lane Safe Deposit?"

The Shan's eyes twinkled.  His subtle mind
rose to the suggested deception.  For the present,
at any rate, he saw his way to a pleasing
subterfuge.  He was pondering over the matter when
there came a timid knock at the door, and a slim
brown figure came humbly in.

"Hamid Khan," the Shan explained.  "Why
do you worry me again to-night?  Didn't I say
I was too ill to be troubled with state business?"

Hamid prostrated himself at his master's feet.
He was desolate and heart-broken; might any
number of dogs defile his father's grave for his
presumption, but the thing had to be done.

"I haven't got the stone," the Shan said, "I
haven't been well enough to fetch it myself, and
I dare not trust anybody else.  Dog, do you
suppose I should keep the jewel here?  There is
a place of vaults and steel chambers and strong
rooms guarded night and day by warders, where
the wealthy keep their valuables.  The place is
called the Safe Deposit, and is hard by where
the learned lawyers argue.  That is where the
stone is, in proof of which I show you the key."

The Shan gravely held up a latch-key.  Acting
though he was, there was a dignity about him
that quite impressed Denvers.  Hamid was
impressed also, or his face belied him.  He was
sorry to have offended his royal master, but he
was only obeying orders.  Should he come again
on the morrow?

"Ay, at midday," the Shan said loftily.  "Now
take your miserable body from my presence."

The Shan's dignity collapsed as the door closed
behind Hamid Khan.  He looked to Harold for
assistance.  He had not more than fourteen hours
or so—and most of them the hours of the night—to
find salvation.  All the time Harold was leisurely
turning over matters in his mind.  If he could
manage this thing for the Shan his future was
made.  He had his finger on the centre of an
international intrigue almost.  The Shan had
always been favourable to England, his tastes and
inclinations, his very vices, were English, whereas
the new aspect leant towards Russia.  The
British Government doubtless would have stood
by the Shan at this juncture had they known.

"There's only one thing for it," Harold said
after a long pause.  "We must try and work
on Benstein's cupidity.  He knows you, he is well
aware that your name is good for a large sum
of money, only he will have to wait for it.  And
of your integrity there is no doubt."

"Your Foreign Secretary does not think so,"
the Shan groaned.

"I am not speaking of morals now, but stability.
For the time you are hard up.  If you will eschew
champagne for a time, not to mention other things,
you could make it worth Benstein's while to wait
for a few weeks.  Ask him to let you have the
Blue Stone for a few days, after which it will be
returned to him until it is properly redeemed.
For this accommodation you are prepared to pay
a further two thousand pounds."

The Shan nodded greedily.  He was prepared
to promise anything.  His lips were twitching with
excitement.  He rose and put on his coat.

"Let us go at once," he said.  "But stop, do
you know where Benstein lives?  And if we do
find him it's long odds that stone is deposited
with his bankers."

"Benstein lives in Berkeley Square," Denvers
explained.  "He is growing old and senile, he
has come to that cunning stage when he does
not trust anybody.  He keeps all his valuables
in a big strong-room at his house.  That I know
for certain.  He is sure to be at home."

"Then we'll go at once.  It's a forlorn hope,
but still—come along."  Denvers checked his
impulsive companion.  Common prudence must
not be forgotten.

"Your Highness forgets that you are certain
to be watched," he said.  "Your friend Hamid
or some of his spies are sure to be pretty close.
I'll go away from the hotel and wait for you in
Piccadilly.  Then you steal out by the side door
and meet me."

The Shan nodded approval.  His head was too
bad for him to think for himself.  Harold stood
on the steps of Gardner's Hotel, and hailed the
first taxi that passed.  The cabman was to drive
to Piccadilly and there wait.

Progress in Piccadilly was slow in consequence
of the block of carriages before Frobisher's house.
The guests were arriving in a steady stream, and
Denvers amused himself by identifying most of
them.  One of the last comers was Lord Rashburn,
Foreign Secretary, and his wife.  Harold smiled
to himself as he wondered what his lordship
would give for his own private information.
It might be necessary to appeal to Rashburn
presently, and it was a good thing to know where
to find him.  Only it would be useless for Denvers
to try and obtain admission to Frobisher's house.

The Shan came up presently, and Berkeley
Square was reached at length.  Benstein was at
home, and the footman had no doubt that he would
see his visitors, late as it was.  Many a bit of
business with people who needed money in a
desperate hurry had Benstein done between the
dinner-hour and midnight.  He was seated in
his library now with a fat cigarette between his
teeth and poring over a mass of accounts.  To
reckon up his money and to gloat over his many
securities was the one pleasure of Benstein's life.

"Glad to see you, gentlemen—glad to see you,"
he said, rubbing his puffy hands together.  "If
there is anything that I can do for your Highness,
it will be a pleasure."

"His Highness wants to put two thousand
pounds into your pocket," Denvers said.  "It is
the matter of the Blue Stone of——"

A queer sound came from Benstein's lips, and
his mottled face turned as pale as it was possible.

"You don't mean to say that you want the
stone to-night?" he gasped.

"Why else are we here?" Harold demanded.
The air was full of suspicion and he had caught
some of it.  "It is absolutely necessary that we
should have it back, for a time at least.  It was
distinctly understood, I think, that the stone was
to be returned at any hour of the day or night that
we required it?"

Benstein's big head swayed backwards and
forwards pendulously, his thick lips were wide
apart, and showing the gaps in the yellow teeth
beyond.  Harold's suspicions became a certainty.
Benstein had parted with the stone.

"Do you want it now?" Benstein said, as if
the words had been dragged from him.

Harold intimated that he did want the stone
immediately.  Slowly Benstein was recovering.
The rich red blood was creeping into his face again.

"It is impossible," he said.  "Usually I keep
most of my valuables here.  But I recognised the
political as well as the pecuniary value of the Blue
Stone, and I did not dare.  The stone is at the
Bank of England, and I cannot get it before ten
to-morrow.  It is very unfortunate."

"Very," Harold said dryly.  "But we must
make the best of it.  I have a pretty shrewd idea
where the stone is, but my guess would not have
been the Bank of England.  We don't propose to
redeem the gem; we suggest that you should let
the Shan have it for two or three days on the
understanding that when the business is completed
your charge is increased by the sum of two
thousand pounds."

"But this is not business," Benstein pleaded.
"Under the peculiar circumstances——"

"Precisely," Harold interrupted dryly.  "Under
the peculiar circumstances you are going to
accommodate us.  Mr. Benstein, I fancy that you
and I understand one another."

Benstein's eyes dropped, and the fat cigarette
between his fingers trembled.  He muttered the
talisman word "business" again; but he was
understood to agree to the terms offered.  He was
shakily eager to offer his distinguished guests
refreshments of some kind, but Denvers dragged
the Shan away.  Once in the street, the latter
stopped and demanded to know what the
pantomime meant.

"It's pretty plain," Harold said.  "Old
Benstein hasn't got your jewel at this moment."

"Hasn't got it?  Do you mean to say that he...?
Preposterous!  But in the morning——"

"In the morning it will be all right again.
In the morning you will see quite another Benstein—a
Benstein who has changed his mind, and will
refuse to part with the Blue Stone so long as a
single penny remains unpaid.  I startled him
to-night.  I got astride of that figment of a
conscience of his.  But I am going to help you to
clench the business.  Come along."

"Where are you going to?" the Shan asked feebly.

"Back to your hotel.  You are going to dress
up in your State war-paint and proceed at once
to Lady Frobisher's dress-ball.  I suppose you've
any amount of dresses and that kind of thing—I
mean you could rig out a staff, if necessary?"

"I've got all the mummery for going to Court,
if that is what you mean."

"Good," Harold cried.  "I'll just step into
this chemist's and get a few pigments necessary
to the successful performance of my little comedy.
You are going to the dance as the Shan of
Koordstan, and I am going carefully disguised
as Aben Abdullah, your suite."





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.. _`HUNT THE SLIPPER`:

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   CHAPTER XV.


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   HUNT THE SLIPPER.

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A fine perspiration stood out on Lefroy's
face, he swayed to and fro like one in an
advanced stage of intoxication, the Count
was utterly unmanned for the moment.  As his
brain and eye cleared presently, Frobisher came
out of the mist in the semblance of a man who was
manifestly enjoying himself.

"I pray you sit down," he said in his silkiest
manner.  "My dear Count, the heat has been too
much for you.  The hero of a thousand adventures
succumbs to a high thermometer—it is possible to
choke a Hercules with an orange pip.  A little
of the old brandy, eh?"

Frobisher's face was perfectly grave now, only
the dilation of his pupils and the faint quivering
of his lips denoted his amusement.  Lefroy
forced a smile in reply.  He was conscious of the
fact that that little demon opposite was reading
his inmost thoughts.

"Just a little of the brandy," Frobisher said
coaxingly.  "The kind that I keep for my very
dear friends.  Ah, I am sure that is better.  Now
let us sit down and smoke, and forget the giddy
side outside."

Lefroy nodded.  The course suggested suited
him admiringly.  When he was best pleased
Frobisher chatted most, and he seemed to be
exceedingly pleased about something now.  Lefroy
would have time to recover his scattered thoughts
and define some line of action.

"You have solved the problem of the lady of the
rubies?" Sir Clement asked.

"I have," Lefroy replied carelessly.  "From
a romantic point of view the solution is
disappointing.  I expected to see a regal personage
at the very least, whereas——"

The speaker shrugged his shoulders insolently.
The other smiled expectantly.

"Go on, my dear Lefroy.  I am all attention,
I assure you.  The lady of the rubies is——?"

It was on the tip of Lefroy's tongue to
snarlingly reply that Frobisher knew perfectly well,
but that was bad policy under the circumstances.

"You are typical of the spirit of the age,"
he said.  "All the same, I hardly expected to see
the wife of a moneylender under your roof.
Lady Frobisher——"

"Has progressed rapidly of late in the cult
of the proletariat.  So Mrs. Benstein is the lady of
the rubies.  I half expected it from the first—only
the wife of a moneylender could sport jewels
like that.  But she is a beautiful woman, Lefroy,
and she is going to make a great social success."

Lefroy could only mutter something in reply.
He had one great aim in view at the present
moment—to get back to the ballroom and persuade
Frobisher to remain where he was.  Did the
Count but know it, Frobisher was just as eager to
reverse the order of the procedure.  But no suggestion
of this escaped him, he sat there smiling as if
he and a double meaning were strangers.

"I am very partial to rubies myself," he said.
"In a modest way I am a collector, and my uncut
stones are worth an inspection.  My wife also
has the same weakness, which is another of the
many strong bonds that bind us together.  I'll
show them to you."

"Don't trouble," Lefroy said hastily.  "Any
other time will do.  If you have to fetch
them——"

"Sit down.  Positively you must have another
drop of the brandy.  Your nerves are better, but
not what the nerves of a bold warrior should be."

So saying, Frobisher produced a case from a
drawer and laid the contents before Lefroy's eyes.
In spite of himself he could not but admire.
He did not see the keen, alert look on the face of
his host as he bent down to examine the gems.
People were passing the open door; there was
a light ripple of laughter and conversation.
Frobisher darted into the hall.

"This way a moment," he whispered, as he
caught his wife by the arm.  "Come with me and
do as I tell you.  You are to keep Lefroy in
yonder room for half an hour."

He was back again before Lefroy had missed
him.  Lady Frobisher's scornful eyes softened as
they fell upon the tray of gems.

"We have a taste in common, then, Count," she said.

Lefroy replied suitably enough.  He had a
strong admiration for the white, cold beauty of this
woman; he watched her slim fingers as she toyed
with the gems.  Some of them were unnamed,
whilst others had histories of their own.  Frobisher
pitched his cigarette into the grate.

"You can amuse the Count, my dear," he said.
"He has had some little touch of illness, and
should be kept quiet.  The gems will interest
him.  Meanwhile, I will endeavour to take
your place."

It was all done so quickly and naturally that
Lefroy could do or say nothing.  Did Frobisher
really know anything or not, he began to wonder.
If there was any conspiracy Lady Frobisher knew
nothing of it, it only needed a glance at that
scornful, beautiful face to feel that.  She was talking
now easily and naturally enough with one of the
stones in her pink palm, and Lefroy had perforce
to listen.  To leave the room now would have been
an unpardonable rudeness—a *gaucherie* Lefroy
never allowed himself to commit.

Meanwhile Frobisher had mingled with his
guests.  He was in no hurry.  Lefroy was safely
out of the way for a time, and Frobisher always
preferred to hunt his game leisurely.  Besides,
the crush of dancers and guests generally was so
great that progression was a matter of some
difficulty.  He came across Angela presently
attired in white and with a pair of gauze wings
suggestive of Peace or something of that kind.

"Stop a bit," he said, "and tell me all about it.
Upon my word, you are looking exceedingly nice.
By common consent, who is the success of the
evening?"

"Oh, Mrs. Benstein, without doubt," Angela
replied, with sincere admiration.  "She is lovely,
and those rubies are simply superb.  Everybody
is talking about them."

"And the fortunate woman herself?  How does
she wear her blushing honours?"

"Very well indeed.  You know, I rather like
her.  Everybody is asking for an introduction
now, but at first people held aloof.  I have had
a long chat with Mrs. Benstein, and she quite
fascinated me.  She is going to be a great success."

"Of course she is with her cleverness and
audacity, to say nothing of her beauty and her
jewels, it could not be otherwise.  I must go
and pay my respects to her.  Where is she?"

But Angela had not the slightest idea.  Something
like a thousand people were scattered about
the long suite of rooms, and there were shady
alcoves and dim corners for easy conversation
*à deux*.  Mingled with the brilliant throng of
uniform and fancy dresses the jewelled turban
of the Shan of Koordstan stood out.  He came
up with his companion similarly attired, and
held out his hand.

"This is an unexpected pleasure, your Highness,"
said Frobisher.  "I heard that you were
not quite——"

"Sober," the Shan said frankly.  "I have been
leading a deuce of a life lately, Frobisher.
My servant here, Aben Abdullah, insisted upon
my putting in an appearance here to-night.
He has been bullying me as he would never dare
to do at home.  When we get back I shall have to
bowstring him gently.  He is a very valuable
servant, but he knows too much."

Aben Abdullah bowed and smiled.  The Shan
extended his patronage to Angela.

"My servant knows a little English," he said.
"My dear young lady, would it be too great a
trespass on your kindness to ask you to act as his
cicerone for a time?  I have a little business to
discuss with Sir Clement.  Aben is very intelligent,
and he is a noble in his own country."

Angela expressed her pleasure.  She was always
ready to sacrifice herself to others; besides, she
had rather taken a fancy to this handsome young
foreigner, who reminded her somehow of Harold
Denvers.

"What would you like to do?" she asked, as
they strolled off together.

Aben murmured something about the flowers
that he had heard so much about.  Could he see
them?  Angela would be delighted.  They stood
in a large conservatory at length in the dim light,
and then Aben smiled down into Angela's face.

"I feel sure of my disguise now, darling,"
he whispered.  "If I could deceive you, I am
not in the least afraid that Sir Clement will find
me out."

"But what does it mean, Harold?" Angela
asked.  "You certainly reminded me of yourself;
but I should never have penetrated your
disguise.  But the Shan must know all about it."

"Of course he does.  It is a little scheme that
we have hatched together.  I have no time to tell
you everything now; indeed, with so clever a
man to deal with as Frobisher it is far better
that you should not know.  But the Shan has done
a very foolish thing, and his very throne is in
danger.  Both Frobisher and Lefroy know this,
and they will do all they can to keep him under
their control.  If I can defeat that plot and free
the Shan, then I need not trouble about the future."

Angela's eyes lighted up eagerly.  All her quick
sympathies had been interested.

"You will let me help you?" she exclaimed.
"Harold, I am quite sure that you want my
assistance.  I am a great deal stronger and braver
than you imagine.  Try me."

"I am going to try you, my dear little girl,"
Harold whispered.  "I should like to kiss you at
this moment, but I dare not take any risks.
For the present your task is a very simple one.
I want you to get a certain lady in here and sit
under the shaded lamp yonder.  You must get
here and keep her talking till I come back.  If
I hold up my two hands your task is finished;
if I come forward, you must know that I want to
speak to the lady alone."

"It all sounds very mysterious, Harold.  Who is
the lady?"

"They have christened her the lady of the
rubies here.  I was very pleased just now to hear
that you had, so to speak, made friends with her.
Will you go at once?"

Angela made off hurriedly, and, for the time
being, Harold returned to the ballroom.  On the
whole, he was not particularly enamoured of the
part he was playing: the idea of forcing himself
into a house where he had been forbidden by the
host was repugnant to his finer feelings; but, on
the other hand, any scheme was worthy which
had for its end the defeat of a scoundrel.  As the
Shan caught Harold's warning eye he left Frobisher
and moved towards his ally.

"So far there is not much the matter," Harold
replied.  "Miss Lyne knows exactly what she has
to do, and she will do it well.  You are going to
have a pretty big surprise just now, but whether
it will turn out a pleasant one or the reverse
I cannot say as yet.  Stand here and pretend to be
interested in the pictures."

Angela had been more successful in her search
than Frobisher.  A prosy peer had buttonholed
his host and the latter could not get away for
the present without using actual violence.  Angela
had found the lady of the rubies sitting in a dim
corner alone.  She looked a little dazed and tired.

"I am not used to it," she said frankly.  "And
I can't stand all their silly folly.  I sent my
partner for an ice on purpose to get rid of him.
My dear young lady, you are very kind, and I've
taken a great fancy to you because you are the
first person I have spoken to to-night who is
honest and true.  All the same, I really want that
ice, and if you can find some quiet corner——"

"I know the very thing," Angela cried eagerly,
delighted at the way fate was playing into her
hands.  "Come along.  There, what do you
think of that?  Sit down near the light and I'll
go and get the ice."

Mrs. Benstein protested, but Angela was already
out of earshot.  The Shan and his companion
were deeply engrossed in a pair of Romneys as
Angela passed them.

"I have secured your bird," she whispered.
"She is exactly where you asked me to place her."

Harold touched his companion on the arm, and
they strolled away leisurely in the direction of
the great conservatory.  It was fairly quiet here,
with few people about.  Under the lamp sat a
rarely beautiful woman whose dress from head
to foot was one mass of rubies.  Another one
flamed across her forehead.

"What do you think of her?" Harold
whispered.  "And what do you think of that big
stone that is attached to her forehead by those
thin gold wires?"

The Shan started violently.  He rubbed his
hands across his red bloodshot eyes.

"The Blue Stone of Ghan," he whispered
hoarsely.  "By Allah, she is wearing the sacred
jewel!"





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`DIPLOMACY`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XVI.


.. class:: center medium bold

   DIPLOMACY.

.. vspace:: 2

As the Shan stood there watching the graceful,
unconscious form of Mrs. Benstein, a great
rage seized him.  In one moment his thin
veneer of Western civilisation had vanished.  He
was Baserk, savage, hard and cruel, from his
glittering eyes and long fingers that crooked as
if on the woman's throat.  He swayed against
Denvers with the passion that thrilled him.

"Close in on her," he hissed.  "Drag the jewel
away.  If you steal behind her and hold her by
the throat——"  He could say no more for the
present.  There was safety and freedom close
to his hand, and only a frail woman between
himself and his desires.

"Oh, rubbish!" Harold said coolly.  "My good
sir, you will kindly forget that you are the Shan
of Koordstan for a moment, and recollect that
you are a guest here.  I can give a pretty shrewd
guess how the stone came here—indeed, I should
have been disappointed had I not seen it.  Benstein
is old and feeble, and he dotes on his wife.  But
there is a better way than yours.  Can I trust you?"

The Shan nodded.  He was recovering himself slowly.

"Then stay here, but do not be seen.  Miss
Lyne will be back presently, and she is on our
side.  Ah, here she comes.  I have a few words
to say to her."

Angela came up at the same moment, her eyes
shining blue interrogation points.  Harold drew
her aside a little way and rapidly whispered a few
words in her ear.

"Questions presently," he smiled.  "We have
only time for action now.  Ask Mrs. Benstein
to remain where she is, and say you will be back
in a moment.  Meanwhile, I must get you to
present me to Lord Rashburn, the Foreign
Secretary.  Can you manage this?"

Angela was under the impression that she could
manage this quite well.  Rashburn was a close
connection of Lady Frobisher, and a great admirer
of her own; indeed, the handsome, courtly
Foreign Secretary was an avowed admirer of the
sex generally.  It was some little time before
Angela contrived to get possession of the great man
and it required all her fascination to induce him
to listen to the handsome young man who
represented the Shan's suite.

"I'll give him five minutes," he said.  "Where
is the intelligent young foreigner?"

Harold came up at a sign from Angela.  Lord
Rashburn was courtly as usual, but bored.  He
particularly disliked intelligent young foreigners.
He hoped that Aben Abdullah knew some English.

"I am English, my lord," Harold said coolly.
"I assure you that I shall not bore you; indeed,
I propose to interest you extremely.  I heard your
lordship in a recent speech observe that you
derived a lot of good from reading healthy fiction;
indeed, you went on to say that, under altered
circumstances, you would have been an author
yourself.  I should like to discuss a little plot
with you."

Rashburn was unaffectedly interested.  Mystery
and intrigue of any kind appealed to him; he was
fond of building up stories from conventional
surroundings.  And there was some mystery here.

"Go on," he said, courteously.  "I feel I
shall be interested.  In the first place, is the plot
a—er—murder one?"

"Eventually, my lord.  We will begin here in
this very room, describing the house and the
occasion, not forgetting the host.  Our host, my
lord, should make a fascinating study of a character
given to—shall we say—to diplomatic methods?"

"Why not stretch a point and make him an
unscrupulous rascal?" Lord Rashburn said dryly.

"That is a most excellent suggestion, my lord.
We will go on to say that he has designs against
my master; that he desires certain concessions
that my master has promised elsewhere, say to a
young Englishman who knows the past, and who,
under an assumed name, is part of his suite.
Sir Clement has a hold on my master, and I want
to save him.  In virtue of his office my master
has in his possession a precious jewel called—called
anything you like."

"The Blue Stone of Ghan!" Rashburn cried
incautiously.  "I know all about that."

"Let us call it a magic diamond," Harold
smiled.  "We must not be too realistic.  After
all said and done, this is no more than the plot
of a story."

"To be sure," Rashburn said hastily.  "I had
forgotten that.  Pray go on."

"My master is extravagant, which is a mild
way of putting it.  At the risk of losing
everything, his head included, he raises money on
the—er, diamond, pledges it, in fact, with a
miserly old moneylender, who has a wife that he
fairly dotes on.  My master's enemies, including
Sir Clement, and another called Count Lefroy,
find this out.  They cook up some story to the
effect that the sacred—er, diamond is wanted
to seal certain State papers.  There, for the
present, we must leave my master in the dilemma
into which he has got himself and go forward,
merely premising that he has promised to produce
the stone and seal those documents to-morrow
morning."

"One of the most ingenious plots I have heard
of for a long while," Rashburn murmured.

"I flatter myself that the best part is to come,"
Harold proceeded.  "My suggestion is that the
moneylender should be seen and asked to let us
have the stone for an hour or two, and add two
thousand pounds to his charges.  We called for
that purpose, and the old man thinks we want the
gem back.  He is in such a state of pitiable terror
when we call, that instantly I know that he has
parted with the stone.  From what he says its
recovery is only a question of a few hours.  He
says something about the stone and the Bank of
England, but that is all nonsense.  I guess what he
has done.  He has lent the stone to somebody,
and I also have a shrewd guess who that somebody
is.  Then I suggest that we come here."

"Capital!" Rashburn cried.  "You are interesting
me exceedingly.  Go on."

"We come here.  And here we find that a great
sensation has been created by a lady who is
dubbed the lady of the ru—I mean the queen of the
diamonds.  She is the wife of the great financier
my master and I have been so recently
interviewing.  Remember he is old and senile, and
dotes on her.  It is inevitable that he has lent
her the great diamond as a kind of glorious finish
to her toilette."

"In fact, we may assume that you have seen
it blazing on her—shall we say forehead?"
Rashburn asked.

"You have guessed it exactly, my lord,"
Harold went on.  "Here, then, is a beautiful
complication—my master has to get the gem back,
and incidentally is ready to commit murder to do
so; here is the host who may come along at any
time, and recognise the gem.  That is as far
as I have developed the story as yet, but I might
at this point bring in yourself and your
Government and make an international matter of it.
If this thing leaks out, the Shan, who is favourable
to England, goes, and his cousin, who is from
Russia, steps on to the throne.  Would it be
fair to ask the Government to lend my master
two hundred thousand pounds under the circumstances?"

Lord Rashburn glanced admiringly into the
face of his companion, and shook his head.

"It would be a foolish thing to mention the
affair directly to the Foreign Secretary at all.
Officially I could not listen to you for a moment.
I can only listen to you now because I am interested
in stories of any light kind.  But if you are
asking my advice purely to get your local colour
right——"

"That's it," Harold said eagerly.  "If it were
true, which is the proper course to pursue?"

"I see you are a born novelist," Rashburn
smiled shrewdly.  "Well, in these matters there
are intermediaries, rich men who are ready to
sacrifice their purse for their country.  Most of
these men have strong claims on the Government
of the day.  Some of them become Commissioners,
of this, that, and the other, and have letters after
their names.  Some become baronets, or even
members of the Upper House.  There is Mr. Gerald
Parkford, for instance.  He is over there talking
to the lady in the yellow satin.  I understand that
he is deeply interested in problems of this kind, and
has frequently done the State some service, at a
considerable loss to himself.  Some day his wife
will wear a coronet.  Purely out of regard for your
story I will introduce you to Parkford, and then
you will be able to bring the tale to a logical
conclusion.  Of course you will see that if this
were anything but fiction it would have been a
gross impertinence of you to have mentioned it to me."

"Of course, my lord," Harold said humbly,
and carefully avoiding Rashburn's eyes.  "If
your lordship will be so kind as to make me known
to Mr. Parkford——"

"I will do that with the greatest possible
pleasure.  I shall catch his eye presently.  Ah,
I thought so."

The little keen, brown-faced man opposite
looked up presently, and at a sign from Rashburn
excused himself to his fair companion, and crossed
the floor.  Rashburn explained the situation in a
few words.

"I understand you are fond of adventures of
this kind," he said.  "For the sake of my friend
here, and for the sake of his book, you will give
him the benefit of your advice.  My dear young
friend, I am quite fascinated by your interesting
story.  Good night."

Rashburn turned upon his heel in the most
natural manner, and plunged at once into a
flirtation with a pretty girl in pink.  Nobody would
have guessed that he had just listened to a
thrilling piece of information that might mean a new
move for him in his Eastern policy.  The little
keen-eyed man looked at Harold and nodded his
head interrogatively.

"Of course, Rashburn has to play his game,"
he said.  "It would never do for him to know
anything about the thing officially, unless the Shan
approached him personally, which is not in the
least likely.  Because, you see, we have got to get
that ruby back—no reason to split hairs between
you and I—and by fair means or foul.  Personally,
I should prefer to settle the business on prosaic
business lines—go to Benstein very late, tell him
we know everything, and tender him a cheque
for the money and bring away the ruby on an
authority from the Shan to do so."

"Not a written authority," Harold said hastily.

"Of course not.  You could come along if you
liked.  That's one way of settling the business
out of hand.  A day or two after, Rashburn would
ask me how the story was going on, and I should
say that I had showed you a flaw in it, and that as
the money had been forthcoming the affair was
finished on much too matter-of-fact lines to give
an interesting finish.  He would understand."

"And his diplomacy would be unspotted,"
Harold smiled.  "But I fancy we are not going
to be allowed to finish quite in this light-hearted
way.  We have Frobisher to deal with—Frobisher
who suggested that Mrs. Benstein should appear
in the role of the Queen of the Rubies.  He knew
that Benstein had the Blue Stone; he knew that
Mrs. Benstein is in the habit of borrowing gems
left with her husband for security; and he
calculated on her borrowing that pearl amongst rubies
for to-night.  Do you suppose, knowing Frobisher's
character, that he means that stone to leave
the house?"

"I know that he is an utterly unscrupulous
scoundrel," Parkford said freely.  "Oh, he is
quite capable of this kind of thing.  Do you
happen to know anything of Miss Lyne?"

"I am engaged to be married to her," Harold
said quietly.

The little brown-faced man whistled softly,
but his features expressed no astonishment.

"I thought your English was uncommonly
good for a native," he said.  "Of course, I know
all about you now.  My wife, who knows the
history of everybody in London, I believe, told
me about Harold Denvers and Miss Lyne, and
how you had been forbidden the house and all that
kind of thing.  I seem to remember, too, that at
one time your father and Frobisher were by the
way of being friends."

"To my father's cost," Harold said with some
little bitterness.  "He robbed and ruined my
father, and he died a broken man.  That was
before Frobisher put money in his purse by so
shamefully abusing his position in the diplomatic
service.  As to Miss Lyne——"

"Miss Lyne may be of the greatest possible
service to us," Parkford said.

"She is of use at the present moment," Harold
said.  "Of course she knows I am here and
why, though I should be kicked out of the house
if discovered.  Miss Lyne is keeping Mrs. Benstein
out of the way for the moment—out of Frobisher's
way, that is."

Parkford jerked his thumb over his right
shoulder and nodded.  As Harold looked up
he saw the shifting figure of Frobisher passing
through the crowd.  His eyes were narrow and
eager, he seemed to be looking furtively and
greedily for some one.

"The bloodhound is astir," Parkford muttered.
"We must cross his trail without delay."




.. vspace:: 4

.. _`A FRIEND IN NEED`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XVII.


.. class:: center medium bold

   A FRIEND IN NEED.

.. vspace:: 2

Angela took her place by Mrs. Benstein's
side as if they had been friends of
standing.  She had a game to play, and
not too many instructions as to how it was to be
played, but, at the same time, she was strangely
moved to the financier's wife.  In spite of her
beauty and intelligence there was an atmosphere
about her that was just a little pathetic.  She
reminded Angela of some white mountain-peak
stretching away far above its fellows, solitary,
beautiful and alone.

The light shimmered upon her jewels as they
gently heaved upon her breast.  Her fine eyes
were just a little interrogative as they turned upon
Angela.

"It is very good of you to interest yourself in
me," she said.  "I wonder why you do it?"

Angela coloured slightly; after all, her
attentions were not quite disinterested.

"Perhaps it is because you fascinate me,"
Angela said frankly.  "I have never seen any one
like you before.  I love character.  And yet,
you seem quite lonely, as if you were apart from
the rest."

"Well, so I am," Isa Benstein replied.  "The
men on occasions like this count for nothing.
I never see a lot of men crowded round a pretty
woman without a strong temptation to laugh.
They look so foolish.  And yet your women here
rather avoid me—they are not quite sure of my
position.  But I could lead the whole lot of them
if I chose to do so."

Angela did not doubt it.  She had only to look
in that beautiful face and see that the boast was no
idle one.  The brilliant light died out of the
speaker's eyes.

"But what is the good of it?" she said.  "I
don't believe there is any society worthy of the
name to-day.  Money seems to be everything.
Your poor aristocrat sneers at the monied people.
But ain't they just as ostentatious themselves!
Don't they rob their creditors and neglect their
bills to appear like other people?  It seems such
a dreadfully snobbish thing to do."

The fine eyes were looking round contemptuously,
the breastplate of rubies heaved slowly.
The words sounded strange from one so superbly
attired, and Mrs. Benstein laughed as she caught
Angela's smile.

"You are thinking that I am no better than
the rest," she went on.  "Well, perhaps not.
But, then, my plumes are borrowed ones.  You
see my husband is what is called a money-lender.
There are lots of great ladies here to-night who
come to him for assistance, they bring their
jewels and he lends them money.  I am wearing
nearly all borrowed plumes to-night."

Angela gave a little gasp at the audacity of the
confession.

"Oh, of course it is wrong," Mrs. Benstein
proceeded.  "It's like a laundress who keeps
back a silk blouse from somebody else's washing
to wear on a Sunday.  I've done that myself."

Angela listened in dazed fascination.  Such a
confession from one so stately and beautiful was
amazing.

"You have learnt the art of jesting with a
perfectly serious face," she suggested.

"My dear, I am telling you the exact truth.  I
suppose it is the impish spirit in my blood that
prompts me to do such things.  In the day of
my early Sunday holidays things were different.
But you can't expect a high morality in a little
Shoreditch second-hand clothes shop."

"You will tell me that you served in one next,"
Angela laughed.

"My dear, I did," was the reply.  "Do you
know, I have not the slightest idea who my parents
are.  All I know is that I am not a Jewess, though
I was brought up as one.  I used to run about the
streets.  I grew up somehow.  And then I drifted
into that shop.  I educated myself pretty well,
for the simple reason that I cannot forget
anything.  My husband took me away and married
me.  I would have married any one to get away
from that blighting desolation.  I was going mad
for the want of colour and brightness in my life.
And—and there you are."

"Nobody could possibly tell that you have not
been used to this life always," Angela said.
"There have been jealous eyes round you to-night,
but they found no flaw."

"I had no intention of them finding a flaw,"
Mrs. Benstein said coolly.  "I have intuition and
observation.  And yet, till this very night, I have
never sat and chatted with a lady before.  I like
you, Miss Lyne, and I would do anything for you.
I like your kind face and those thoughtful eyes."

Angela was glad to hear it.  The confession made
her task all the easier.

"I am going to ask you to help me," she said.
"I felt sure from the first that I could rely upon
you.  May I not be personal just for a little
longer?  You say your plumes are borrowed
ones.  Have you any idea of the identity of the
ruby you are wearing on your forehead?"

"Not the least.  My husband never mentions
his clients by name—or, at least, very seldom.  I
took a fancy to this stone as a kind of climax to
my costume, and with great reluctance my
husband let me have it.  Your eyes are telling me
strange things, Miss Lyne."

"My tongue is going to tell you stranger,"
Angela whispered.  "To think that you should
be ignorant of the fact that you are wearing the
sacred Blue Stone of Ghan."

"The Shan of Koordstan's Royal gem!" Mrs. Benstein
exclaimed.  "Oh, I know all about that.
There is very little underground political history
that I don't know.  Koordstan and the Cardinal
Moth and the—the rest of it.  Our host to-night
would give me something for the stone."

"Our host of to-night means to have it," Angela
said under her breath.

"I see, I see.  What an intellect the man has!
It was he who persuaded me to come as Queen
of the Rubies.  For his own ends he got me
invited here.  He felt pretty sure that my husband
would let me have the Blue Stone to wear.  I
am in danger."

"I don't think you are exactly in danger,"
Angela said.

"Oh, yes, I am.  You don't know everything,
I can see.  The Shan of Koordstan is here to-night."

"He is here with one of his suite called Aben
Abdullah, who, by the way, is my beloved one in
disguise.  He is Harold Denvers, who is aiding
the Shan."

"A romance, a veritable romance, with danger
and difficulties clinging to it like an aroma.  So
I am to play the part of one of Sir Clement's
puppets!  We shall see.  Now tell me everything."

Angela proceeded to explain that she was
going much beyond Harold Denvers' hurried
instructions.  But from the first her instinct had
told her that she could make a friend of the woman.
She concealed nothing, she spoke of the difficult
position of the Shan, and what Harold had to gain
by a recovery of the sacred jewel.

"I'm glad you told me," Mrs. Benstein said
slowly.  "Very glad.  But there is more danger
here than you anticipate, danger to me and to all
of us.  Sir Clement Frobisher is one of the greatest
scoundrels on earth; he is cunning into the
bargain, a perfect master of trickery and intrigue.
Do you know anything of the Cardinal Moth?"

Angela shook her head.  She was practically
ignorant on that point.  Mrs. Benstein indicated
the nodding, trembling spray of blossom on her
breast.

"These flowers are in it," she said.  "The
Cardinal Moth must play its part with the rest.
There will be no rest until the Moth is back again
over the altar in the temple of Ghan.  You wonder
perhaps how I know all these things, but the
blood of all nations contrives to make the mystery
that is called Isa Benstein.  Now I want you to
bring General Pearson to me; I want you to stay
here whilst we go away for a dance together.
Sir Clement, and perhaps another man, will be
looking for me.  Say that I shall be back here in
ten minutes to see you.  You need say no more
than that."

Angela went away, wondering but obedient.
The handsome old soldier would be delighted.  He
had been looking for his next partner for a long
time.  He was quite distracted by her absence.
They walked away together, leaving Angela
behind.  Presently in the distance she could see
the figure of Frobisher wandering in and out of
the crowd.  Angela walked smiling up to him.

"Hide-and-seek," she cried gaily.  "You are
looking for somebody?"

"Even the Queen of the Rubies," Frobisher
responded in a similar strain.  "A handsome
reward will be paid to anybody giving information
as to her present whereabouts."

"You may keep your beloved money," Angela
said.  "I am above such things.  Mrs. Benstein
is dancing with General Pearson, and in ten
minutes she has asked me to meet her under the
lamps yonder.  And here comes Count Lefroy,
as if he were looking for somebody, too."

Angela slipped away as Lefroy came up,
showing his teeth in a queer, uneasy smile.  He was
trembling, too, as if he had run a long distance.
Frobisher suppressed a disposition to snarl.

"You have finished, then?" he asked.  "My
rubies were worthy of a closer inspection."

"And would have had the closer inspection only
Lady Frobisher was called away," Lefroy replied.
"Her ladyship would have left me alone with them
but I implored her not to place so fierce a
temptation in my way.  She does not know that I
share your passion for those stones, especially
large ones."

"Like the Blue Stone of Ghan, for instance?"
said Frobisher, with a sharp indrawing of his
breath.  "It would be good to get hold of that, eh?"

Lefroy's eyes grew a trifle harder and more
uneasy.  He seemed to be miserably uncertain
in his mind, divided in opinion as to whether
he should stay where he was or go away on some
errand of his own.  The crowd became slightly
more thick as the strains of music ceased and the
dance came to an end.  In spite of everything,
the rooms were growing unpleasantly warm, and
the guests were seeking cool corners.  Mrs. Benstein
came presently, leaning on the arm of her
military escort.  Her face was turned away, so
that neither of the two men watching her could
see her features.

Lefroy drew a deep, long breath.  The time had
come, he would have to stand up and fight
Frobisher, the secret that he had half deemed his
own was on the verge of exposure.

"Mrs. Benstein is going into the conservatory,"
he said meaningly.  "I propose to follow her wise
example and do the same thing.  A sybarite
like you does not care for robust air.  I presume,
therefore, that you are going to stay where
you are."

Frobisher hooked his arm quite affectionately
through that of his companion.

"On the contrary, I feel that a tonic would
do me good," he said sweetly.  "I am distressed
for your sake.  There is a nervousness about you
to-night that alarms me; I could not enjoy
myself thinking about it.  What should I do,
where should I be without my Lefroy?  Orestes
and Pylades, Damon and Pythias *et hoc*, where are
you all alongside of Lefroy and Frobisher?"

He led the way into the conservatory close to
where Mrs. Benstein and her companion were
seated.  By accident or design, Isa Benstein
had her back to them.  She seemed to be chatting
gaily and without a trouble in the world to the
General, who rose presently and proceeded back
in the direction of the ballroom on ices bent.
Then Mrs. Benstein rose and sauntered to the
door of the conservatory.  Both the men there
watched her breathlessly—the time had come, and
they both of them knew it.

She wheeled round suddenly as if conscious of
their presence and smiled gloriously.

"I am admiring the flowers," she said.  "They
are exquisite.  But I must have a word with Miss
Lyne, whom I see in the distance.  If my
distracted General misses me, pray tell him that I
shall be back at once.  I trust you to do this for
me, Sir Clement?"

Frobisher nodded with his mouth wide open,
even he felt at a loss for words.  There stood the
lady of the rubies, her dress glistening with the
gems, but her fair broad brow was clear as day,
there was no vestige of a stone to mar its pure
symmetry.

"It's a wonderfully warm night," Frobisher gasped.

"Sultry," Lefroy said meaningly, "very sultry.
Deprives you of your wits, doesn't it?  Weren't
you saying something just now about the Blue
Stone of Ghan?  Or did I dream it?  Come along."

"Where to?" Frobisher asked, like a man in a dream.

"Why, to the smoking-room, to be sure,"
Lefroy said with polite mockery.  "As you told
me just now with such tender consideration
for others, you are not quite yourself.  A little
brandy, the brandy you know, and a small soda.
You seem to want it badly."

"Egad," Frobisher burst out bitterly; "egad,
I fancy we both do!"





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`A DEFENSIVE ALLIANCE`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XVIII.


.. class:: center medium bold

   A DEFENSIVE ALLIANCE.

.. vspace:: 2

Lefroy's face, on the whole, was the more
composed of the two.  It was not often,
in public at any rate, that Frobisher
allowed his passion to get the better of him, but
for the moment he was utterly taken aback.
He had planned his scheme so neatly, the whole
cunning skein had reeled off so splendidly that the
startling disappointment was all the more
maddening.

"Nothing like the old brandy," Lefroy sneered.
"You will find it a sovereign cure."

But Frobisher was recovering himself slowly.
He was not the man to show his hand for long.
The dry, hard smile was on his face now, the
passionate desire to hurt something had passed
away.  Ignoring Lefroy's remark, he passed on
in the direction of Mrs. Benstein.

"I have been looking for you everywhere," he
said.  "One does not usually have to hunt for
the sun, but in this case the planet would seem to
be a retiring one.  Does my house afford such
poor attraction that you should bore yourself in
this lovely spot?"

"I am not in the least bored," Mrs. Benstein
said, with one of her most brilliant smiles.  "On
the contrary, I have been enjoying myself
immensely.  I am merely resting."

Frobisher said something appropriate.  Nobody
could do that kind of thing better when the mood
was upon him.  At the same time, his deep-set
eyes were looking for signs, that might be conspired
into something useful.  Lefroy contented himself
by standing behind and smiling vaguely.

"Your gems are all I expected them to be,"
Frobisher went on.  "I felt certain that rubies
would suit you to perfection.  But you want something,
a certain finish.  A star or cluster on the forehead
to finish.  Don't you agree with me, Count?"

He flashed a wicked grin at Lefroy, who said
nothing.  Isa Benstein gave no sign.  She smiled
as she arranged the flowers, the Crimson Moth
that seemed to fascinate Lefroy.

"I thought so at first," she said.  "In fact, I
was wearing something of the kind when I came
here.  But on mature consideration I decided
that it looked too overpowering.  Several of your
splendid mirrors confirmed that impression;
consequently, I removed it."

"It is in a safe place, I trust?" Lefroy said
carelessly.

"Really, I suppose so.  Not that it matters,
seeing that it is of no particular value.  It was the
only sham thing that I had about me.  It is with
my fan somewhere."

Lefroy urged the point no further.  It was not
policy to say too much.  The two men went off
together presently, as Isa Benstein was claimed
for another dance.

"The man who finds that fan will be lucky,"
the Count said meaningly.

"The man who finds that fan will find nothing
else," Frobisher replied.  "How on earth it has
happened I don't know, but that woman has
discovered everything.  Did you see her face as
we were leaving?  I did.  She came here in
blissful ignorance of the little comedy or tragedy,
or whatever you like to call it; but she has had
a warning from somebody since supper.  Lord
bless you, she knows all about it.  We couldn't
ask any prying questions without arousing her
suspicions, though I am of opinion that she is
quite aware of the way that she has baffled us.
Oh, she is a clever woman."

"Clever as they make them.  But she is only a
woman, after all, my friend, and liable to make
mistakes like the rest of her sex.  She has got
that stone about her."

Frobisher's eyes gleamed.  He had been thinking
much the same thing.  Followed by Lefroy, he
repaired to the smoking-room and proffered his
hospitality.  For some time the Count smoked and
drank in silence, waiting for a lead from his host.
There was bound to be some kind of explanation
between them, and Lefroy preferred the lead to
come from the other.

"Silence is golden," Frobisher said, with one
of his sudden grins.

"In this case," the other said.  "Perhaps you
would like to deal the first hand.  I shall sit tight
for the present."

"I fancy it is my play," Frobisher said
thoughtfully.  "Fate and the other players push us a
long way off our line of policy sometimes.  For
instance, I never imagined that I should be dragged
into an offensive and defensive alliance with you.
But for the present it is absolutely necessary.
We must get that precious gew-gew——"

"Call it the sacred Blue Stone of Ghan and
have done with it," Lefroy growled.

"Very well, though it is hardly diplomacy.
Mrs. Benstein came here wearing the Blue Stone.
You found it out quite by accident, and it was
your game to prevent me from knowing.  You
tried very hard, but you were a little too much
taken by surprise, especially when the Shan was
announced."

"That was a very awkward moment for me,"
Lefroy admitted.

"It was.  Directly you came in here I guessed
exactly what had happened.  As a matter of fact,
I had not the least intention of your coming here
to-night, indeed I didn't know you were coming.
As a matter of fact, also, my wife cordially
dislikes you, and I suppose she only asked you out
of compliment to me."

"We'll let that pass," Lefroy said.  "I was
startled when Mrs. Benstein dropped her mask
and the Blue Stone stood revealed.  Of course, I
knew that the stone was pledged to Benstein, and
that Mrs. Benstein having it was natural enough.
The doting old fool had been wheedled out of it
for the evening.  But I didn't know that you knew
that, and I was most anxious to keep the information
from you.  But directly I came face to face
with you here, I knew that you had some deep
scheme, and that you guessed that I had got wind
of it.  I have worked that out."

Frobisher smoked and sipped his brandy with
infinite relish.

"I always like to study a subtle mind, Count,"
he said.  "Will you explain your meaning?"

"Certainly, especially as I shall lose nothing
by so doing.  Why did you get your wife to ask
that woman here at all?  I knew you had to use
something like force to bring it about.  You did
it because you knew where the Blue Stone was.
You advised Mrs. Benstein as to her dress, you
gave her hints on that head.  You were quite
aware of the extent of Benstein's senile devotion
to his wife.  And you calculated that if she
adopted the ruby suggestion she would borrow the
Blue Stone."

"Excellent," Frobisher said cordially.  "A
capital piece of reasoning.  And a very pretty
scheme, though I say it myself.  It came off, and
only your presence prevented my coup.  Pray go on."

"There isn't much more to say.  Once Mrs. Benstein
was here wearing the Blue Stone, you
had no intention of her leaving with the gem in
her possession.  I don't mean to say that you
would have used brutal force to get it, but I do
mean to say that you would not have hesitated
at that if needs must.  Once you had the stone
you would have forced those concessions from
the Shan."

"And exposed the forged ones that you
deposited with Benstein," Frobisher said sweetly.

Lefroy winced, and the glass chattered against
his teeth.  He had not expected that stroke, and
his dark face indicated the fact for a brief moment.

"That is certainly one to you," he said.  "Only
that is not the point for the present.  The point
is, that your plot has failed, that the woman who
came here to-day wearing the Blue Stone out
of pure vanity and with no kind of *arrière pensée*
whatever, has been warned of her danger, which
she has promptly removed.  She knows pretty
well everything—the way she received us showed
that.  She is an exceedingly clever woman, and
has a shrewd idea how to take care of herself.
Has she got the stone still?"

Frobisher nodded gravely.  Lefroy's point was
worthy of consideration.

"You mean, has she passed it on to somebody
else?" he said.  "She might have done that, but
I don't fancy so, and I'll tell you why.  She has
seen enough of the world to teach her not to
trust anybody.  Naturally enough, she does not
want her husband to be ruined, as would be the
case unless the stone was restored to Benstein's
safe keeping without delay, and so she would
trust to her own shrewdness to get away without
robbery.  On the whole, she has not parted with
the stone."

A little reflection assured Lefroy of the
soundness of this reasoning.  The thing resolved
itself into a game of hide-and-seek with a fortune
at the end of it with any luck.  Up to a certain
point these men were compelled to act together,
but the alliance might end at any time.

"I can't very well abduct Mrs. Benstein till
she parts with the gem," he said.

"No, we can't do it, but we might find somebody
who could," Frobisher smiled.  "There's the
Shan's minister and treacherous servant, Hamid
Khan, for instance.  He has scant respect for the
laws of this or any other country, and he knows
quite well that his master has parted with the
stone.  If we could put our hands upon the amiable
Hamid at this moment——"

"Nothing is easier.  Hamid is watching in
Piccadilly at this very moment."

"So you have got a little scheme afoot, too,"
Frobisher laughed.  "Upon my word I need all
my wits to enable me to get the better of you,
Count.  How long has this been going on?"

"Ever since the stone left the Shan's possession.
Ever since then he has been dogged and watched.
Let me go and call Hamid in to our discussion.
He knows what has happened, for I scribbled a
few lines on a sheet of paper just now when I left
your wife, and handed it to one of the smaller
spies who are loafing outside.  The night is hot,
and our absence will not be noticed.  Now slip
on our coats and assume to be going to smoke a
cigar in the garden.  From thence we reach
Piccadilly by the back way, and surprise Hamid
in his dreary vigil.  Then he comes back with us
here.  What do you say?"

Frobisher nodded gleefully; it was an intrigue
after his own heart.  They passed into the cool
air of the garden, and from thence into the narrow
lane at the back of the house.  It was very late
now, and Piccadilly was growing quiet, so that the
few lounging figures there were easily seen.  A
slender, brown-faced man in a dust coat and
evening dress came along smoking a cigarette.
He did not appear to be in the least interested in
anything only for his restless eyes.

"I want you," Lefroy said.  "There's work to
be done, Hamid."

"Indeed, I am glad to hear that," said the
other in a remarkably English tone of voice.  "I'm
getting sick to death of this eternal loafing.  But
Sir Clement Frobisher and Count Lefroy together!
My dear Count, what are you doing in that galley?"

"Any galley is good enough when your own
has been temporarily wrecked," Lefroy growled.
"But ask no questions for the present and come
with us."

They went back again presently in the smoking-room
without having attracted the least attention,
or so at least Sir Clement Frobisher flattered
himself.  It would never do for the Shan to know
of Hamid Khan's presence in the house.  But
there were other watchful eyes besides those of
the Shan of Koordstan.  Mrs. Benstein had seen
the two men go into the garden, and she had seen
three return.  She was not quite quick enough to
get sight of the third, but she had a pretty shrewd
idea who he was.  She waited till she could have a
word with Angela.

"I want you to do something for me, at once,"
she said.  "Sir Clement Frobisher and Count
Lefroy are in the private smoking-room with a third
person.  I want you to open the door and rush
in with Sir Clement's name upon your lips as if
you are in a hurry for something.  Then you can
stammer an apology and close the door behind
you.  The great thing is to get a quick mental
photograph of the third person."

Angela nodded, she wasted no time in idle
questions.  In the most natural fashion she burst
open the door and fluttered into the smoking-room,
calling upon Frobisher as she did so.  Then she
stammered an apology and gently closed the door
again.  The third person had been seated directly
opposite to her so that she had a perfect view of
his face.

"I see you were perfectly successful," Mrs. Benstein
said.

"Oh, absolutely," Angela replied.  "It is a
slender man with a deep mahogany face and curly
hair, quite a handsome Asiatic, in fact; but what
struck me more were his eyes, which are a clear
light blue.  Fancy, blue eyes in a face like that!"

"Capital," Mrs. Benstein murmured.  "It is
exactly as I expected.  No, I am not going to say
any more for the present, because I don't want to
spoil your enjoyment.  Now go off and flirt with
that handsome young fraud, called Aben Abdullah,
when you have the chance.  Only don't go where
I shall have to hunt for you in case of dire
necessity."





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`WHAT DID SHE MEAN?`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XIX.


.. class:: center medium bold

   WHAT DID SHE MEAN?

.. vspace:: 2

Harold was on the look out for Angela, so
that she had not much trouble in finding
him.  His stolid Asiatic indifference was
admirably feigned, and showed nothing of the
anxiety within.  There was just an interrogative
gleam in his eyes for the moment.

"Isn't there somewhere where we can be really
quiet for a few minutes?" he said.  "I have
successfully disposed of my royal rascal for the
time, and I want badly to speak to you.  Unless I
am greatly mistaken, you can give me a good deal
of information, Angela."

Angela's smile indicated that she could.  There
was a small passage behind some heavy curtains
leading to a suite of rarely-used rooms, and
Angela led the way there.  She put the light up
for a few moments and disclosed a cosy corner
lounge, then she snapped off the switch again.

"I've pulled the curtain back so that it is
possible to see without being seen," she explained.
"We must not stay long, Harold—I am sure that
Mrs. Benstein will want me before long."

Harold slipped his arm round the girl's waist,
and kissed her.  Stolen moments like this were
very sweet.  There was just an interval of blissful
silence.

"Now tell me what you know," Harold asked
presently, "about the Blue Stone."

"I know nothing about the Blue Stone," Angela
explained.  "Mrs. Benstein has done something
with it.  All the mischief arose from the fact that
she had no idea of the traditional value of the gem.
She had not asked her husband about it.  As a
matter of fact a cunning idea of Sir Clement's——"

"I know all about that," Harold interrupted.
"It was very cunning, and came near success,
only I nicked in, and you and I spoilt it between
us.  Lefroy spotted the stone first and tried to
keep the knowledge from Frobisher, which was
practically impossible.  Then luck conspired to
force those fellows to make an offensive and
defensive alliance.  But where is the stone?"

"My dear boy, I haven't the remotest idea.  All
I know is that it has disappeared from
Mrs. Benstein's forehead, and that she seems to be
enjoying the comedy."

Harold listened uneasily.  He knew perfectly
well that Frobisher and Lefroy would not stick at
murder even to regain possession of the Blue
Stone.  If the sacred gem was still in Mrs. Benstein's
possession she would never be allowed
to reach home with the thing intact.

"I suppose we must wait on events," he said
after a pause.  "For the present the Shan is not
likely to interfere.  I have placed him safely at a
bridge-table, and there he will sit so long as there
is a game, though his kingdom was toppling about
his ears.  Still, it keeps him sober, and that is the
main thing.  I suppose Mrs. Benstein did not tell
you what she proposed to do?"

"I didn't ask her, Harold.  She is so
marvellously cool and clever that I felt quite easy
in my mind.  But there is another foe to fight.
I quite forgot to tell you about him."

"Did Mrs. Benstein tell you, or did you find it
out yourself?"

"No.  It was Mrs. Benstein.  She said somebody
was closeted in the private smoking-room
with Sir Clement and Count Lefroy.  I was to
pretend that I didn't know, and blunder into the
room, taking care to get a good sight of the
stranger before apologising.  I did it very well."

Harold squeezed Angela's waist affectionately.
She laid a loving hand on his.

"Perhaps you know the man," she went on.
"He looks like a true Asiatic, but at the same
time he has blue eyes.  It struck me as such a
singular thing."

"I know him perfectly well," Harold muttered.
"This thing goes deeper than I expected.  The
man who is still plotting with these two rascals is
Hamid Khan, who calls himself one of the Shan's
ministers.  He is perhaps the most dangerous foe
my pseudo-master has.  If he can only prove that
the Blue Stone had been out of the Shan's
possession there will be a change of dynasty in
Koordstan.  This is the worst piece of news I
have heard to-night."

"I don't quite see why you should be so deeply
interested," Angela said softly.

"My darling, there is a good deal of self at the
bottom of it," Harold admitted candidly.  "I
shouldn't take all this trouble and run all this
risk for a worthless creature like the Shan, unless
I could see some benefit in it.  I want to pin him
down over those concessions, which will make my
fortune.  They will give me control over one of the
richest tracts of land in Koordstan.  In a year or
two I shall be wealthy."

"Just as if it mattered," Angela whispered,
rubbing her cheek against Harold's, "just as if it
mattered, when I shall have so much.  But don't
forget that you have Mr. Benstein to deal with.
You can't rob him of the stone which he has come
by honestly in the way of business."

"Oh, I know that.  And we must have the stone
by ten o'clock to-morrow.  But I have found a
way out of that difficulty.  Between ourselves,
Lord Rashburn showed me the way.  We have a
rich Englishman who will advance the money and
benefit politically and secretly at the same time.
He runs no risks of losing his capital either, because
he is certain to get it back from the Shan in time.
When Mrs. Benstein has gone home we shall follow
and settle the business out of hand.  I wish she
would go now."

"I should trust her," Angela said thoughtfully.
"She will go in her own time and her own way;
she will baffle those scoundrels yet, I am certain
of it.  My dear boy, do be careful.  If you are
found out——"

Angela paused significantly.  There was a risk
of the mine being fired at any moment.  There
was no more dangerous or cunning foe in Europe
than Sir Clement Frobisher, all the more dangerous
in that he had Count Lefroy for an ally.  And the
time before the Shan was getting perilously short.

"Wait upon events a little longer," Angela
urged as she arose.  "We must go back again,
it is not wise to stay here any longer.
Mrs. Benstein may want me."

Harold made no demur, pleasant as it was to
linger by Angela's side.  She held his face between
her hands and kissed him, then he walked towards
the curtain.  The band was playing some
passionate love waltz; there were murmurs of
conversation and light laughter.  It seemed almost
impossible to identify intrigue and danger with
so fair a scene.

The two wandered on together past the dancers
and the couples sitting out, talking quietly
together as if they had been no more than casual
acquaintances.  Harold was a dull-dogged Asiatic
again, but he kept his eyes about him.  The
crowd grew less; it was more quiet in the region
of the card-rooms.  Several parties were deep in
bridge here, the Shan of Koordstan amongst the
number.  There was a pile of gold before him;
from the satisfied glitter in his eyes he was winning
heavily.  Harold gave a sigh of relief.  He was
free still to follow his own plans without the added
responsibility of keeping the Shan away from the
champagne.  He had a passion for wine, but a
deeper passion for play, and so long as the
cards were on the green baize, he would think of
nothing else.

"His whole soul seems to be wrapped up in it,"
Angela whispered.

"Of course it is," Harold said contemptuously.
"If I went to him now and told him that he had
only to step across the room to recover his sacred
gem he would ask me to come back in an hour.
Doubtless he has quite forgotten why he came here.
Look, here comes Frobisher."

Frobisher came into the room rubbing his
hands together and smiling softly.  A glance at
him told Harold that he had not only made his
plans, but was perfectly satisfied with them.
Somebody hailed Frobisher with a suggestion
that he should come in and make up a table, but
he excused himself.  He strolled off down the
corridor, and as he did so Angela caught sight of
Mrs. Benstein's flashing gems in the distance.

"I'll follow her," she whispered.  "She's gone
towards the big conservatory."

But Frobisher was on the same errand.  He
caught Mrs. Benstein up and made some remark.
She smiled back at him as if there was nothing
hidden under the surface.

"Oh, yes, the orchids," she said.  "I have been
promising myself a treat with your orchids.  I
will conveniently forget that I am engaged for the
next dance.  I want to see your Cardinal Moth in
full bloom."

"I want to know how you are so *au fait* with
the Moth," Frobisher grinned.

"That is my secret, sir," Isa Benstein laughed.
"There is Eastern blood in my veins.  But I
know all about it.  You will certainly be murdered
if you keep that orchid long enough."

"That, to my mind, is just the added charm,"
Frobisher said coolly enough.  "I love the flower
passionately.  But the Cardinal Moth is unique,
it has such a cruel, bloody history.  Still I am not
going to part with it for all the priests of Ghan."

Isa Benstein was forced to admit that there was
something in Frobisher's fascination as she looked
up at the graceful ropes of blossoms.  There had
been one of the periodical bursts of steam which
had just cleared away, so that the cloud of delicate
white-pink bloom with its fluttering red satellites
overshone in refulgent perfection.

"It is indeed the queen of flowers," a deep
voice came from behind.

Mrs. Benstein looked round into the dark,
inscrutable face of Lefroy.  She and her host and
the Count were alone in the big conservatory.
The door was open, but they were too far away
for any one to hear or to hear any one else.  That
she had been lured there Isa Benstein knew without
anybody to tell her.  She had the Blue Stone of
Ghan in her possession, both these men knew it,
and they were both desirous of gaining possession,
but they were both utterly unscrupulous in their
methods.

If it came to a personal struggle they were
equal to that.  They would both declare afterwards
that the story of violence was a pure fabrication,
and that it had existed in a hysterical woman's
imagination.  And for the sake of her husband
Mrs. Benstein would say nothing.  How could she
stand up and tell the world that she had been
wearing the Blue Stone at Lady Frobisher's dance,
when the thing had been pledged to cover a money
advance?

These thoughts flashed through the woman's
nimble brain like lightning.  But the smile never
left her face; she did not show for a moment that
she knew or felt anything.  She was quite ready.

"They are lovely," she said.  "I am filled
with envy, though I have some perfect orchids of
my own.  Miss Lyne, won't you come and worship
at the shrine of Flora?"

Isa Benstein raised her voice in the hope that
Angela might be near.  It was a sort of danger
signal and might prove efficacious.  The next
moment Angela walked in.  She understood
perfectly, but she made no sign.  Just for a
moment Frobisher's eyes flashed like electric
points.

"I don't care for orchids," Angela said.  "There
is something uncanny about them."

"Not all," said Mrs. Benstein, as she bent and
broke off a spray of deep blue blossom.  Frobisher
winced as if somebody had struck him a painful
blow.  "Look at these blooms; they are sweet
and tender enough.  Count Lefroy, I want you to
arrange this spray in Miss Lyne's hair.  You can
reach better than I can, and I can trust your taste.
Place this flat under the coil at the side."

Angela made no demur, though she would far
rather have done it herself.  Lefroy did his work
gracefully enough and stepped back to admire
the effect, as did Isa Benstein.  Frobisher, still
snarling for the loss of his beloved flowers, looked
on with his teeth bared in an uneasy grin.

"Perfect!" Mrs. Benstein cried, as if she had
only one thought in her mind.  "All this evening
I have been racking my brains to know what little
final touch was lacking.  I beg of you as a personal
favour not to remove those flowers till you go to
bed.  Now will you promise me?"

Angela gave the promise lightly enough.  Lefroy
drew Frobisher a little on one side.

"We are wasting valuable time," he growled.
"Get rid of that girl."

"One moment.  Her presence here is quite an
accident.  Our fair friend has no suspicion.  I
shall find a good pretext to get rid of Angela in a
moment.  Yes, it is a fine flower and quite unique."

The last few words were spoken aloud.  But if
Lefroy had seized his chance for a word with
Frobisher, Isa Benstein had not lost her
opportunity.  "I am going to make a remark,"
she said, "though I only dare to give you a hint.
Sir Clement has ears like a hare.  When I speak
you are to give a laugh as if I had made a brilliant
joke.  You are quite sure neither of these men are
really listening to us?"

"I think you can venture to go on," Angela
murmured.  "I am quite ready to laugh."

She broke out into a rippling, amused smile as
Mrs. Benstein slightly bent her head and said:

"Be sure that you take down and brush out
your hair to-night!"





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`CHECK TO FROBISHER`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XX.


.. class:: center medium bold

   CHECK TO FROBISHER.

.. vspace:: 2

The whole thing struck Angela as strangely
unreal.  It hardly seemed possible that
this swiftly-moving drama could be played
amongst the settings of her daily life in this fashion.
There was the dreamy music of the band—the
Scarlet Bavarian Band of so many big social
functions—the familiar fuss and flutter of drapery,
the sound of well-known voices.  Mrs. Benstein
was smiling in the most natural way, the two men
appeared to be quite at their ease.  And yet here
was a moving drama that any one moment might
flare into tragedy.  Still, Angela played the game
mechanically.

A light laugh rippled from her lips so naturally
that she was quite surprised.  She had not the
slightest idea what Isa Benstein meant by the
strange caution, but she had every intention of
carrying it out to the letter.  Frobisher sauntered
back to his beautiful guest's side.  Angela lingered,
waiting for the next move.  She saw Mrs. Benstein's
eyes glance towards the door with a
significant look.  As she made some excuse for
leaving the others together she saw a flickering
smile of approval.

"May we smoke?" Frobisher asked, as he
closed the door behind Angela.  "We are all
enthusiasts, and we don't want any dilettantes here."

"You may do just as you please," Mrs. Benstein
said.  "Probably you would follow that course
in any case.  You are a bold man to keep the
Cardinal Moth here."

"What do you know about it?" Frobisher asked.

There was a dry chuckle in his voice as he put
the question.  Mrs. Benstein looked up at the cloud
of glorious blossoms over her head.

"I know a great deal," she replied.  "I have
lived with some strange people in my time and
I have heard some strange things.  There are
certain quarters in the East End where they speak
queer languages and where they know things
that would startle the authorities.  Amongst these
people I was brought up.  I learnt their ways and
their methods.  Ah, it was a good school for a
girl who has a treacherous world to fight."

The speaker flung herself into a chair and hung
her long white arms by her side.  The light
gleamed upon her sparkling jewels and the dark
eyes that sparkled more brightly still.  Frobisher
watched her with something more than artistic
admiration; his thin blood was stirred.

"You speak like a Sibyl," he laughed.  "If you
know all about the Cardinal Moth you also know
all about the Blue Stone of Ghan, I presume?"

Frobisher's voice was low and hoarse and
persuasive.  He had flung down the challenge, and
Isa Benstein was ready to receive it.  She raised
her large dark eyes slowly, and they seemed to
float over the faces of her antagonists.  She noted
the leering grin on Frobisher's features, the
truculent bullying expression of Lefroy's.

"I have heard of that also," she said in the
same level tones.  "The two are inseparable."

"Or ought to be," Frobisher went on.
Evidently he was to be the spokesman.  "But if
the Moth has flown far, why not the sacred jewel?
Have you ever seen it, fair lady?"

The question was a direct threat, and Isa
Benstein rose to it.  She sat there swinging her
long arms idly, and glancing with perfect
self-possession at her companions.  They meant to
have that jewel, as she knew; they were not
going to stick at anything to gain possession of it.

"I have seen it," she said quietly; "in fact, I
wore it here on my forehead to-night."

Frobisher started.  He fairly beamed with
admiration.  What a woman!  What a
nerve! he thought.  Anybody else would have denied
the thing point blank.  But here was a woman
prepared for any emergency.  There was going
to be a battle of wits here, and Frobisher rose to
the fray.

"Surely a rash thing to do," he murmured.

"Wasn't it?" Isa Benstein asked with a swift
and glorious smile.  "But ignorance is bliss, you
say.  That being so, there ought to be a great deal
more happiness in the world than there is.  Count
Lefroy, won't you sit down?  No, in that other
chair, so that I can see your face."

Lefroy bowed and complied.  All this waste of
time annoyed him, but Frobisher, on the other
hand, was enjoying himself exceedingly.  Nothing
that was straight or open ever appealed to him.
He would rather have obtained a shilling by
crooked means than a sovereign by holding out
his hand for it.

"You came here wearing the Blue Stone
without knowing it?" he asked.  "I am interested,
fascinated, and amazed.  Incidentally, I am
a little amused into the bargain."

"Possibly," Isa Benstein smiled brilliantly.
"But you are not half so amused as I am."

Frobisher grinned at the way in which his
challenge had been flaunted back into his teeth.
With the quick subtlety of the polyglot the woman
had grasped his scheme and what he wanted.

"It is good to feel that my guests are thoroughly
enjoying themselves," he said politely.  "I should
like to know how the Blue Stone came into your
possession at all."

"Problems seem to be in the air," Isa Benstein
murmured.  "Your flattering interest is very
soothing to my vanity.  You know what a
conjurer means when he speaks of forcing a card
on a spectator?  Of course you do.  The expert
with his quickness and his patter can make the
spectator he selects draw any card he chooses.
The conjurer in this case chose me to force his
card upon.  But all the same when I came here I
had no notion that I was wearing anything half so
historic as the Blue Stone of Ghan."

"But you tound it out after you got here?"
Frobisher said keenly.

"Yes.  That was a piece of good luck.  And
when I did so I removed it.  That was a piece of
caution."

"Then you had worked it all out in your mind,
I suppose?"

"Yes.  I worked it out in the best possible
way—backwards.  I worked it out so completely
that I was in a position to read another person's
mind.  Shall I read that other person's mind?"

Frobisher bowed and smiled in one of his quick
grins.  Lefroy shifted uneasily in his chair.  Isa
Benstein's lips were parted, her arms played idly
by the side of her chair, there was no sign of fear
in her eyes.  When she spoke again it was quite
calmly and slowly.

"We will begin with the conjurer," she said.
"After all, he has succeeded in forcing the card
that is destined to lead up to the brilliant trick
that dazzles and astonishes everybody.  We will
assume, for the sake of argument, that you are
the conjurer and I am the silly heedless spectator
who is marked out as the involuntary accomplice."

"The mind could not grasp you in that senile
capacity," Frobisher murmured.

"Then give your vivid imagination free run for
once, Sir Clement.  The card in this case represents
something that you very much desired, call it
the Blue Stone of Ghan.  The sacred jewel is
hidden in a certain place.  Your great idea is to
conjure that somewhere else, and being a master
of your trade, you have to make use of a third
party who shall make the transfer for you without
knowing anything of the matter.  Only a prince
among conjurers could hope to bring off so
brilliant a coup as that, but there is no great
success without great audacity.  But Count
Lefroy is looking at his watch.  I am afraid that
he is not interested."

"It matters nothing about Lefroy," Frobisher
said.  "I am deeply interested.  Pray go on."

"Of course, our conjurer knows where the
stone is.  It is in the custody of an old man
who has a young wife.  The old man with the
young wife has countless gems for safe custody.
From time to time he lends these gems to his wife to
wear, though, with the characteristic caution of
his tribe, he never says anything to the owners.
Well, here is the conjurer's card forced from him, so
to speak.  All he has to do now is to design an
occasion when the transfer may be made.  We will
say it is to be at a brilliant party—a fancy-dress
ball, where gems may play a leading part.  The
victim will be there.  As the Blue Stone of Ghan is
a ruby, he naturally suggests rubies, much as
the common conjurer with his magic bottle induces
his assistant on the stage to choose the kind of
liquid he wants to dispense.  Says he to himself,
that old man will offer his young wife the Blue
Stone as a kind of crown of glory, and she will
take it, not knowing what it is.  Once she arrives
at the fancy-dress ball the rest is easy.  Do I
interest you so far?"

"Wonderfully," Frobisher croaked.  "Fancy
finding the conjurer out like that.  But though
you have spoiled the trick, he must have the
forced card, in this case represented by the—but
why complete the phrase?"

"Why, indeed?" Isa Benstein asked serenely.
"The brilliant trick as a brilliant trick has failed,
for the simple reason that the involuntary medium
has been too clever for her part.  But I see that
the conjurer is not so disconcerted as he might be,
because he can always fall back upon his bully
method whereby he sometimes disguises failure
and leads up to a success in a fresh line.  Is it to
be the bullying policy, Sir Clement?"

Sir Clement bent forward and nodded eagerly.
His yellow teeth were all exposed in a wide grin.
Lefroy sat regarding him with open contempt.  A
clock somewhere struck two; the strains of the
band floated in.

"I should like to borrow the Blue Stone,"
Frobisher said hoarsely.

"We will discuss that presently," Isa Benstein
went on.  "Perhaps I had better finish my train
of logical reasoning.  There was danger of the
trick failing, in so much as the Blue Stone might
have been recognised.  And here was a further
resource open to the conjurer.  It was open to him
to put aside the tricks of his trade and take the
stone, take it with violence, if necessary.  He
would argue that his victim dared not speak, that
she would put up with the loss rather than tell a
story that nobody would believe.  The idea of a
man robbing his guest with violence under his
own roof—and such a roof!—would be scouted
by any common-sense person.  Again, the
unconscious medium would have her husband to
consider.  If the true facts of the case came out he
would be ruined; there would be a scandal that
might end in a gaol.  Of course, when the desired
mischief had been worked, the stone would be
restored again, discreetly found before it was lost.
Really, gentlemen, my imagination makes me
nervous.  As I sit opposite you, I am inwardly
alarmed lest you should fall upon me and despoil
me of a thing I would not have touched had I
been aware of the true history of the case.  I
know I am foolish——"

"Madame," said Frobisher, rising with a bow.
"You cruelly malign yourself.  I have had some
experience of clever people, and you are by far
the cleverest woman I have ever met.  Your
insight is amazing, of your courage there can be
no doubt.  But don't carry your courage too far."

Mrs. Benstein had risen in her turn, the critical
moment had come, but she gave no sign.  Frobisher
stood also, shaking his head doggedly.

"You deem discretion to be the better part of
valour," the woman said.  "The English profess
never to know when they are beaten!  Surely
that is carrying the thing too far.  The man who
knows when he is beaten is the most valorous
foe, for the god of war is always on the side of
heavy battalions.  You want the stone?"

"I must have it," said Frobisher.

"Must is not a nice word, but——"

"But it's got to be used," Lefroy spoke for the
first time.  "All these words are so much air.
Will you be so good as to lend us the Blue Stone
for a time, or——"

"Stop!" Mrs. Benstein cried.  "Let us quite
understand one another.  If I do not lend you the
stone you are prepared to go to extreme measures
to get it?"

Frobisher nodded and grinned till his teeth
flashed again.  He advanced with his hands
outstretched and a look of greed in his
eyes.  Lefroy stood by as if apart from the
discussion.

"A few more words," Mrs. Benstein said,
with a steady smile, "a few more words, and
then you may do as you please.  I am forced
to allude to the conjurer again and his forced card.
That card is in the possession of the involuntary
medium.  The success of the experiment depends
upon the ability of the conjurer to force the card
when and how he will.  But suppose the
involuntary ally determines to frustrate the trick,
and say that he has lost the card or changed it
for another, what then?"

A wicked, brutish oath sprang from Frobisher's
lips.  All his pretty cynicism and flippant hardness
had gone and the original savage looked out of
his eyes.  Just for a moment he panted with a
rage that was unconquerable.  He was a murderer
in his heart at that moment.

"You mean," he gasped—"you mean to say
that you——"

"Precisely.  As I said before, I had thought
the matter out.  Am I the woman to be any
man's puppet?  The card has disappeared, the
conjurer is baffled.  If you can find the card, well
and good; if not, the trick fails.  The card is no
longer in my possession."

And Frobisher, looking into her eyes, knew
that she spoke the truth.





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.. _`DENVERS LEARNS SOMETHING`:

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   CHAPTER XXI.


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   DENVERS LEARNS SOMETHING.

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Frobisher was first to recover himself.
There were beads of moisture on his
forehead, his teeth were ground together,
but he forced a smile to his lips.  Then he laughed
in a low chuckling fashion, as if something subtle
had greatly amused him.  Lefroy stood there,
glowering.

"I'm not going to be put off like that," he said.
"The thing's impossible."

Isa Benstein ignored the speaker altogether.
She was lying back in her chair as if bored with
the whole proceedings.  The lights were gleaming
on her jewels and her beautiful, tranquil face.

"Don't lose your head," Frobisher said, still
laughing in the same noiseless way.  "Surely
you're not so accomplished a liar that you haven't
learned to know the truth when you see it.  I pay
Mrs. Benstein the compliment of believing every
word that she says.  We have exposed our hands
for nothing, and been outwitted by a very clever
woman.  You'll gain nothing by losing your temper."

"Who could she have passed the jewel on to?"
Lefroy growled.

"Ah, that is the point!  Knowing nobody here
and all!  Madame, I kiss your hand.  You have
made Clement Frobisher look and feel like a fool.
It is a sensation I have not experienced since I left
school.  I believe every word that you say, nay,
if I let myself go I could be furiously angry with
myself.  Lefroy, you had better go, there is
nothing to be gained by staying here.  After
all——"

Frobisher paused, and Mrs. Benstein, with her
head serenely tilted upwards, finished the sentence.

"After all, the Shan of Koordstan is in no
better plight than he was before.  Whoever has
possession of the stone, it is assuredly not the
Shan."

Lefroy strode off and clanged the door behind
him.  Frobisher lighted a fresh cigarette.  He had
been found out in a singularly rascally action,
but that did not disturb his equanimity in the least.

"You must be having a particularly pleasant
evening," he said.

"The most enjoyable I ever remember."  Isa
Benstein smiled frankly.  "In the first place,
I have created a sensation and scored a most
decided success.  To a woman that is like a
foretaste of Paradise.  Then, again, I have been
involuntarily forced to become the central figure
of a most exciting intrigue.  I love intrigues and
mystery to my finger-tips.  I was to have been
the puppet, and yet I have beaten you all along
the line.  Oh, yes, I am likely to remember this
evening for some time to come."

"I suppose so," Frobisher grinned.  "If I
had known I would have lent you a prize ruby
and the Blue Stone might have remained where it
was.  If I had made you my ally——"

"Impossible," Isa Benstein said, curtly.  "I
should never have trusted you."

Frobisher laughed as if the candour appealed
to him.

"I bear no malice," he said.  "I love a strong
foe.  But I wish I had lent you my big ruby, all
the same.  You must accept a souvenir of that
kind in memory of this eventful evening.  I'll
fetch you some uncut stones from which I shall
be proud for you to make your choice.  Meanwhile
I shall leave you to admire my orchids.  You
can't very well run off with my Cardinal Moth."

"I should like to examine it closer," Isa
Benstein said.

It was easily done.  Frobisher merely pulled
a lever and the framework upon which the
Cardinal Moth was roped came down to within a
few feet of the ground.

Mrs. Benstein caressed the blossoms tenderly.
Such a wealth of bloom had never been seen
before.  She stood with them all about her like
the goddess Flora, the ropes touched her bare
arms, the flowers nodded in her face.

"I'll not be long," Frobisher croaked as he
stooped and touched one of the shining taps near
the floor.  "My word, what a picture for an
artist you make!"

He crept away gently, leaving his guest amidst
the nodding blooms.  They were so fascinating
that Mrs. Benstein could think of nothing else for
the moment.  She had quite forgotten the events
of the evening.  She turned her lips to a cluster
of the glorious blooms.

"They are like beautiful, fascinating snakes,"
she said to herself.  "No wonder the man dares
run the risk of having this bewildering beauty in
his house.  Like lovely snakes, the hiss and all
complete."

There was a sudden hiss of escaping steam, and
the whole of the dropped trellis-work was
enveloped in mist.  The mass seemed to move as if it
had been endowed with life or as if a strong breeze
had swept over it.  Then without the slightest
warning a grip like a vice caught Isa Benstein
below and above the elbow, pressing her forearm
and causing her to wince with the horrible pain.

So tight was the grip that she could not turn
or move.  She stood there writhing in agony, and
yet too fascinated to call out.  The bones creaked
and cracked, and still the pain grew greater; it
seemed impossible that any human fingers could
grip flesh and blood like that.  Were all the
weird legends clinging round the Cardinal Moth
true, Isa Benstein caught herself wondering in
a faint, dizzy way?

Then she braced herself up and struggled
violently.  It was characteristic of the woman
that she uttered no cry.  As she drooped and her
eyes grew cloudy she had a faint vision of a face
under a turban, and then there came a sound of
swiftly rushing feet.  The platform seemed to
rise with a sudden jerk.  Isa Benstein was wrenched
from her feet, the weight of her body told, the
arm came away with a cruel drag from the vice-like
grip, and she fell a huddled, shimmering heap
on the floor.

"I hope you are not much hurt," a voice
whispered in her ear.  "It was dreadful."

Isa Benstein scrambled to her feet breathless,
dizzy, and writhing with pain.  But her quick
eyes were clear now, and she recognised the Shan's
companion, whom she knew to be Angela's lover.
His face was white and quivering; there was a
nameless horror in his eyes.

"You saw it," Mrs. Benstein said.  "What was it?"

"I cannot tell you yet," Harold said.  "It was
too dreadful, too awful.  The shock of discovery
almost unmanned me for a moment.  We will
speak about that presently.  How did you happen
to be just where you stood?"

"I was admiring the flowers.  Sir Clement
pulled down the frame for me, so that I could
see better.  He went away to get something that
he wanted to show me, then there was that
sudden grip."

"Which seemed to come out of a vapouring
mist, did it not?" Harold asked hoarsely.  "By
accident I loosened the spring, and as the frame
rose your weight released you.  Is not that so?"

Mrs. Benstein nodded; she had no words just
for the moment.  Now that the reaction had come
she was feeling sick and faint with the pain.
Harold's eyes were still distended with the horror
of some awful discovery.

"It is very strange," he said.  "Sir Clement
did not mean to come back to you, for he has just
left the house.  He slipped out with some
companion whose face I did not see.  But your
arm is painful.  Nothing broken, I hope?"

Isa Benstein raised her lovely white arm to
prove that such was not the case.  But there was
a round red band, and here and there a thin red
stream came from the broken skin.

"Would you mind keeping this to yourself for
the present?" Harold asked.  "Believe me, there
are urgent reasons why you should do so, reasons
so urgent that I cannot go into them now.  If
you are silent we shall bring one of the greatest
scoundrels to the gallows.  If not——"

"I will be silent," Mrs. Benstein said, between
her white set teeth.  "But if you could get me
away to see a doctor, or if there is a doctor here
whom I could trust——"

"Of course there is, I must have been a fool
not to have thought of it before.  Sir James
Brownsmith is the very man, and he is interested
in the case too.  Nobody is likely to come in here."

Harold hurried away in search of Brownsmith,
whom he had seen a little while before.  He found
Angela and explained what he desired to her.  He
had hardly got back to the great conservatory
before the great surgeon bustled in.  Coolly enough
Harold locked the door.  There was no chance of
Sir Clement coming back yet.  In a few words he
gave a brief outline of what had happened.

"It's part of the mystery," he said.  "The same
horrible mysterious force that brought that poor
fellow at Streatham and Manfred to their death."

"Good God!" Sir James cried.  "Do you
mean to say that you have solved that mystery?"

"Certainly I have.  That is why I wanted you
above all men to see Mrs. Benstein.  Oh, never
mind who I am for the present.  To the world I
am merely Aben Abdullah attached to the suite
of the Shan of Koordstan, and I am popularly
supposed to know very little English.  Look to
your patient, man."

Sir James passed the rudeness from a young
man to one of his exalted position.  Very tenderly
and gently he examined the wounded arm.  But
his vivid interest was more than strictly
professional.

"This is very strange," he said.  "There are no
bones broken, I am glad to say—nothing worse
than a severe bruise.  But I could not believe, I
should utterly refuse to believe that a human
hand could make such a mark like that.  Why,
it would have to be as large as a shoulder of
mutton to grip the forearm and deltoid like that.
Did you see your assailant, Mrs. Benstein?"

"I saw nothing at all," Mrs. Benstein said, with
a faint smile.  "There was nobody to see."

Sir James shook his head, but Harold nodded
as if he quite approved of the remark.  Sir James
was still carefully examining the round white arm.

"The thing tallies," he said.  "There are the
same cruel marks, the same indentations as from
a coarse cloth.  And also we have the same great
force used.  In the name of God, what is it, sir?"

Brownsmith spoke with a sudden horror upon
him.  Harold shook his head.

"I can sympathize with your feelings, Sir
James," he said.  "I came very near to fainting
myself when the full force of the thing dawned
upon me.  But for the present I prefer to keep
silence.  And I will ask you to be silent also.  You
would be playing into the hands of an utter
scoundrel if the slightest inkling of Mrs. Benstein's
accident were to leak out."

Brownsmith pursed up his lips and nodded.

"Then the best thing Mrs. Benstein can do is
to go home," he said.  "Plenty of hot water
fomentations for the present and something to
follow.  I'll see that it is delivered to-night.  But,
seeing that Mrs. Benstein has to say good-night
to her hostess, and seeing that her dress is so low
in the sleeves——"

Isa Benstein solved the problem in her own
swift, characteristic fashion.  She tore her dress
from the shoulder so that the gauzy fabric hung
over and hid the cruel red seam on her arm.

"Ask Lady Frobisher to come here," she said.
"Then call my car and fetch my wraps.  I quite
see the necessity of making the thing look as
natural as possible."

It was all done so smoothly and easily that no
suspicion was aroused.  Mrs. Benstein had simply
had an accident with her dress, an accident that
necessitated her immediate return home.  She
had had a charming evening, one that she was
likely to remember for a long time.  Her manner
was easy and natural; she gave no impression
of one who has escaped a nameless horror,
perhaps a cruel death.

"I can slip away, thank you very much," she
said.  "Perhaps the gentleman who has been so
kind will see me to my car.  May I ask your arm?"

Harold bowed profoundly.  It was just the
opportunity he required.  They threaded their
way through the guests along the brilliantly-lighted
corridor into the street where the car was
waiting.  Isa Benstein held out her hand in a
warm and friendly grip.

"I am going to help you and Miss Lyne, if I
can," she said.  "Ask Miss Lyne to come and see
me the first thing in the morning.  After she has
gone to bed to-night she will know and appreciate
my request.  Have you really solved the mystery
of the two tragedies?"

"I am absolutely certain of it," Harold replied.
"See, there is Sir Clement and that fellow—Hamid
Khan, the man who was in the smoking-room, you know."

Mrs. Benstein looked eagerly out of the window.
Her big eyes gleamed.  "It is as I expected," she
said.  "I have made a discovery also, Mr. Denvers.
If you will call on me after eleven
to-morrow you will hear of something greatly to
your advantage.  Strange how fate seems to be
playing into our hands to-night."

The car moved forward, the speaker was gone.





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.. _`STRANDS OF THE ROPE`:

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   CHAPTER XXII.


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   STRANDS OF THE ROPE.

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Denvers returned to the ballroom with a
feeling that he would be glad to get away.
The whole thing sickened him, the light
laughter and frivolous chatter jarred upon his
nerves.  He had been very near to a dreadful
tragedy; he had learnt a hideous truth, and he
had not got himself in hand yet.  He wanted to
know the whole truth without delay.  Angela
awaited him anxiously.

"My aunt tells me that Mrs. Benstein is gone,"
she said.  "She had an accident with her dress.
Harold, you look as if you had seen a ghost."

"I have seen the devil, which is much the same
thing," Harold murmured.  "My dear girl, never
again shall I flatter myself that I have no nerves.
I dare not go into the refreshment-room and
demand strong drink, but I shall be more than
grateful if you will smuggle me a glass of
champagne into the little alcove where we first
met to-night.  There I can tell you something."

But it was not very much that Harold had to
tell.  The terrible discovery he had made must be
kept to himself as far as Angela was concerned.
Mrs. Benstein would like to see Angela in the
morning.  She had a new design for a costume
that might suit the girl, so that she was to be
sure and wear the blue orchids that Angela had
at present in her hair.

"It sounds very mysterious," Angela smiled.

"Well, it does," Harold admitted.  "But I'm
sure Mrs. Benstein has good reasons for the
request.  Taking her all in all, she is the most
brilliantly intellectual woman I have ever met,
and if I mistake not she can supply the missing
piece of the puzzle.  Now I really must say
good-night, dear old girl, and drag my master
home.  I have much to do before I go to bed."

"What did Mrs. Benstein do with the ruby?"
Angela asked.

"I don't know.  She utterly baffled Frobisher
and Lefroy.  At first it occurred to me that she
had passed it on to you, but she would argue that
your tell-tale face would give you away.  I expect
she acted as the hero of Poe's 'Purloined Letter'
did—place the gem in a place so simple and
commonplace, that nobody would ever dream of
looking for it there.  However, I am quite sure
that the jewel is safe."

In the card-room the Shan was just finishing a
rubber of bridge.  He had won a considerable
sum of money, and was in the best of spirits.  As
two of the players quitted the table, Harold drew
his pseudo-master aside.

"You are not going to play again," he said,
curtly, "you are coming home.  If you refuse to
come home I shall take no further interest in your
affairs.  Do you hear?"

The Shan nodded sulkily.  Like the spoilt child
that he was, he had no heed for the morrow.  But
Denvers' stern manner was not without its effect.
He wanted a glass or two of champagne first, but
Denvers fairly dragged him into the street.  There
was no car waiting, so perforce they had to walk.

"You're carrying it off with a high hand," the
Shan growled.  "Anybody would think you had
the Blue Stone safe in your pocket.  Have you
done anything?"

"I have done a great deal; on the whole, it has
been a most exciting evening.  Still, so far as
things go I am quite satisfied with myself.  The
rest depends upon you.  It will be your own fault
if you don't see your own back to-morrow.  No
drink, mind; you are to go to bed quite sober."

"Confound you!" the Shan flashed out,
passionately.  "Do you know who I am?  A
servant like yourself——"

"I am no servant of yours," Harold replied.
"And I know quite well who you are.  You are a
dissolute, drunken fool, who is doing his best to
bring himself to ruin.  And I am doing my best
to save you at a price.  If you like to go your own
way you can."

The Shan muttered something that sounded like
an apology.

"You see, I am greatly worried about the
Stone," he said.  "The Stone and the Moth.  You
promised to tell me to-night where the Moth had
vanished to."

"The Moth is hanging up in Sir Clement
Frobisher's conservatory," Harold Denvers said.
"Frobisher would have shown it to you to-night
only he had a more interesting game to play.  It
is the very plant that was stolen from Streatham.
You can imagine the price Frobisher would ask
for its restoration.  You would grant the price,
and then he would have found some way to
repudiate all the wicked story of that infernal
flower."

"Of course I do, my dear chap," said the Shan,
now thoroughly restored as to his temper.  "It
has been whispered fearsomely round firesides in
Koordstan for a thousand years.  The Cardinal
Moth guarded the roof of the Temple of Ghan.
All the great political criminals were sentenced to
climb to the roof and pick a flower from the Moth.
The door was closed and the temple seen to be
empty.  When the priests outside had finished
their prayer the door was open and the criminal
lay on the floor dead with the marks of great
hairy hands about him.  Sometimes it was the
neck that was broken, sometimes the chest was
all crushed in as if a great giant had done it, but
it was always the same.  Ay, they dreaded that
death more than any other.  It was so mysterious,
horrible."

"And you have no idea how it was done?"
Harold asked.

"Not a bit of it.  The priests kept that secret.
Of course they pretend to something occult, but
I have been in the West too long to believe that.
Still, it is pretty horrible."

"You would perhaps like to know how it is done?"

"Of course I should, Denvers.  The priests are
too cunning for that."

"Doubtless.  All the same, I know how it is
done, and, what is more to the point, Frobisher
knows.  It was the way that Manfred died, also
that poor fellow at Streatham.  And, but for a
miracle, Mrs. Benstein, with your sacred jewel
presumedly in her possession, would have been a
further victim.  Frobisher deliberately planned
the last thing to close the mouth of a woman."

The Shan's eyes fairly rippled with curiosity,
but Harold shook his head.

"Not yet," he said.  "I must be absolutely
certain of my facts first.  Now I am going to see
you into bed, and come round to keep you out
of mischief in the morning.  Meanwhile, I am
going to restore myself to a Christian garb and call
up Sir James Brownsmith, late as it is.  Between us
we might be able to put all the pieces together."

To his great satisfaction, Harold saw his dusky
friend not only in bed, but fast asleep before he
had finished his own change.  Everything seemed
to promise fair for the morrow.  It was past two,
and Harold hurried along in the direction of
Harley Street, and he was glad to see a gleam over
the fanlight of the surgeon's front door.  He was
pulling the bell for the second time when Sir
James Brownsmith appeared.

"What do you want?" he asked, testily.  "A
consulting physician like myself——"

"How is Mrs. Benstein?" Harold asked coolly.
The question was quite effective.  "When I saw
you a little time ago, Sir James, I passed as one
of the Shan's suite.  Clothed and in my right mind,
I am Mr. Harold Denvers, at your service.  I
have the solution of the Manfred mystery in my
pocket."

"And altogether I have no doubt that you are
a most remarkable young man," Sir James said.
"Pray come in.  I ought to be in bed, but I have
not the faintest inclination for sleep.  Come in."

Brilliant lights gleamed in Brownsmith's cosy
study, where books and scientific instruments
made up the bulk of the furniture.  The famous
surgeon proffered cigarettes what time he looked
keenly into the face of his younger companion.
He lighted one of the thin paper tubes himself.

"I am just from Mrs. Benstein's house," he
explained.  "I saw her alone, her husband knows
nothing; it is her great desire that he should
know nothing, that the matter should be kept a
profound secret, in fact."

"It must be," Harold exclaimed.  "Not a
word of it must leak out.  You made a certain
examination of the wound.  What did you find?
Was there any blood?"

"I'm not quite sure.  When I came to wash
the arm there was no blood there.  But there were
the fibres of the rope, and they seemed to be
impregnated with blood the same as those from
the throat of Manfred, and the body of that poor
fellow who was strangled at Streatham."

"Are you quite sure that it is blood, Sir James?"

"Well, I could hazard the suggestion, though I
have not made a careful analysis yet.  No blood
on the victim, but blood on the strands of the
rope.  Strange, isn't it?"

"If it were true, yes," Harold said, dryly.
"But it isn't.  Look here, Sir James."

From the vest-pocket of his dress-clothes
Harold took one wilted bloom of the Cardinal
Moth.  He crushed it between his fingers, and
immediately they were covered with a rosy sticky
bright red substance exactly like blood.  No
paint or pigment of any kind could have
counterfeited the original so well.

"Well, that's interesting," Sir James cried.  "I
see your meaning.  When the victim was strangled
one or two of those amazing blooms must have
been twisted round the rope."

"In other words, the rope that did the mischief
was the rope that held up the Cardinal Moth,"
Harold said.  "It was the same at Streatham;
it was the same with poor Manfred; according to
your own showing, Mrs. Benstein met with her
accident under precisely similar circumstances."

Sir James rose and walked up and down the
room in a fit of unusual excitement.

"You mean to infer that it was not an accident
at all?" he asked.

"You have precisely taken in my meaning, Sir
James.  The Cardinal Moth is at the bottom of the
whole thing.  I must tell you a little of its history.
The Cardinal Moth is unique amongst flowers;
for centuries it guarded, or was supposed to guard,
the Temple of Ghan.  It had magical powers: it
was used for the destruction of political prisoners.
They were shut in with it to pick a flower, and
always were they found dead, crushed to death.
This part is no legend, as the Shan of Koordstan
will tell you.

"The fame of the orchid got whispered about,
and many were the tries to get it.  At last a party
of three men managed it; they divided the
orchid in three parts and fled.  Frobisher was with
one part, and narrowly got off with his life at
Stamboul.  Lefroy got away with another part,
but he lost it and almost his life as well in a fire
at Turin, a fire that was no accident.  The third
man vanished, but his orchid remained intact
till I came across it and brought it to Streatham,
when it was stolen.  My idea was to give it back
to the Shan of Koordstan in exchange for certain
concessions."

"Do you know who stole the plant from
Streatham?" Sir James asked.

"I have a very shrewd idea," Harold said.
"But that we can go into later.  At the present
moment I want to show you a little experiment,
and when I have done so you will know as much
as I do about the mystery.  I am going to prove
to you that the Cardinal Moth has been a terrible
power in the hands of the priests of Ghan, but I
am also going to prove that the power is exercised
in quite a mechanical way.  To-night I managed
to bring away a very small piece of the rope that
sustains the Cardinal Moth.  You see, it is
exceedingly dry and hard, and yet under certain
conditions it thickens up like a cheap sponge.  We
will tie this end to this leg of the table and that
end to the other leg, leaving it to sway a little,
and not making it too tight."

Harold tied the rope as he had indicated under
the eyes of Sir James, who watched him with
breathless attention.  The thing looked so simple,
and yet there was a strange mystery behind it all,
a mystery that was about to be explained.  The
two knots were made tight at length.

"Now, despite the warmth of the night, I shall
have to get you to light a fire," Harold said.  "It
is absolutely necessary that we should boil a
kettle."

"No occasion to do that," Sir James said.
"You shall have your kettle in five minutes.
See here."

From under the table he produced a copper
electric kettle, filled it, and plunged the plug into
the wall.  In a little less than five minutes a long
trail of steam issued from the spout.  By reason
of the long flex Harold could carry the kettle from
place to place without cutting off the connection,
so that the water continued all the time to boil
and fizzle.

"Now watch this," he said.  "I place this jet
of steam under the rope here, and there you are!
The effect is practically instantaneous.  See what
a simple thing it is."  Sir James jumped back,
horror and enlightenment in his eyes.  His voice
shook as he spoke.

"Infernal!  Diabolical!" he cried hoarsely.
"And you mean to say that Frobisher knew this!
Damnable scoundrel; he is not fit to live, still less
to die."





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`A LUNCH AT THE BELGRAVE`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XXIII.


.. class:: center medium bold

   A LUNCH AT THE BELGRAVE.

.. vspace:: 2

Mrs. Benstein received Denvers as
arranged the next morning as if the events
of the previous night had been forgotten.
She was looking wonderfully fresh and bright; a
tailor-made gown fitted her figure to perfection.
She motioned Denvers to a chair.

"I am glad you came," she said.  "Now you
are to please listen to me carefully and put the
past out of your mind altogether.  Since I saw you
last night I have learnt a great deal touching the
history of the Blue Stone of Ghan."

"Which I trust is quite safe," Harold murmured.

"Oh quite," Mrs. Benstein said, with a queer
little smile.  "I have even satisfied my husband
on that point, though he has not yet recovered
from the shock of your visit—I mean the visit of
yourself and the Shan last night.  You want to
borrow the stone for a day or so?"

"That was the suggestion we ventured to make,
Mrs. Benstein."

"For the purpose of throwing dust in the eyes
of certain persons who are interested in an attempt
to deprive the Shan of his throne.  Mind, that is
merely surmise, but I fancy it is correct.  But I
may tell you that my husband could never have
hardened his heart to that extent."

"It doesn't matter now," Harold explained.
"We are in a position to redeem the gem.  Of
course, under the circumstances, I need not
conceal anything from your Mr. Gerald
Parkford——"

"Capital!" Mrs. Benstein cried.  "His name
is good enough for anything.  Now the path is
quite clear.  I want you and Miss Lyne to lunch
with me at two o'clock at the Belgrave.  The Shan
must come along, that is imperative.  He is to
leave a note for his minister Hamid Khan to join
him there at that meal, and bring the document
that requires sealing along.  Also I am going to
ask Sir Clement Frobisher; only I want Hamid
Khan to be a little late.  Do you understand?"

"Most brilliant of mysteries; I'll try to,"
Harold smiled.  "And the Blue Stone——"

"The Blue Stone will be in evidence when the
time comes.  See Mr. Parkford and ask him to
bring that cheque along.  My husband is too ill
to attend to business to-day, so I shall transact
it for him."

"He has had a great deal on his mind the last
few hours," Harold smiled.

"That is it, Mr. Denvers.  A corner in rubies,
so to speak.  Now will you go and settle up this
business for me without delay?  I understand that
the Shan wants looking after if one desires to keep
him in a condition to bestow his mind on business
affairs."

"I'll take the hint and my departure," Harold
laughed.  "I suppose you have written all your
notes.  And I quite forgot to ask if you feel any
the worse for last night's adventure."

Mrs. Benstein had written all her notes, and on
the whole she felt little inconvenience from her
accident.

"Not that I am at all satisfied," she said.
"Mr. Denvers, I was in great danger last night?"

"Terrible danger!" Harold said gravely.
"But I have got to the bottom of the mystery
now, and the same thing is not likely to happen
again.  I can't tell you now; in fact, if I did there
would be no luncheon-party at the Belgrave
to-day.  But your curiosity will not be unduly tried."

By the use of the telephone and a cab, Harold
managed to carry out Mrs. Benstein's desires.
Parkford was waiting in his chambers, having just
breakfasted.

"I expected you," he said.  "Any news of the ruby?"

"Mrs. Benstein says it is all right," Harold
replied.  "She wants you to lunch with her at
two at the Belgrave, and I was to ask you to put
the cheque in your pocket.  It sounds flighty and
very unbusinesslike, but there are other matters
mixed up with this one, and Mrs. Benstein is not
the woman to do a thing of this kind without some
very good reason.  Will you come?"

"With pleasure," Parkford replied, "and bring
the cheque along.  Before very long an invitation
from Mrs. Benstein will confer a mark of
distinction."

The ruler of Koordstan was dressing as Denvers
arrived, and suggesting something in the way of
champagne and soda-water as a means of an
appetite for breakfast.  He had gone to bed
painfully sober for him, and he resented the
interference of Harold accordingly.

"'Pon my word, you seem to forget yourself,"
he said.  "If a man can't do as he likes in my
position——"

"It is precisely a man in your position who
cannot do as he likes," Harold said coolly.  "Leave
that stuff alone till after lunch, when you can do
as you please.  If you want your stone back——"

"I had forgotten all about the confounded
thing!" the Shan growled.  "Let me see, what
had you arranged?  I was so interested in my
bridge last night that I forgot all about it.  Wasn't
there a man called Parkford who promised to do
something to get me out of my scrape?"

"He promised a cheque," Harold explained.
"He is ready to redeem the stone for us, and
Mrs. Benstein has promised that it shall be produced
at the proper time.  I have seen her already this
morning, and she wants you to join her
luncheon-party at the Belgrave at two."

"Count me in!" the Shan said eagerly.  "A
monstrous fine woman, Denvers; and a beautiful
one, into the bargain.  But you forget I promised
to see Hamid Khan here in an hour's time."

"Well, you are not going to meet him here,"
Harold said.  "Mrs. Benstein has got some little
scheme on, and I am here an involuntary ally in
the matter.  You will be good enough to leave a
note here for Hamid Khan, explaining that you
have been called out on business, or pleasure, or
whatever you like; so that Hamid Khan is to
meet you at the Belgrave at two for luncheon,
after which you will seal his papers.  This is
not my idea, but Mrs. Benstein's.  I am looking
forward to a very pretty comedy presently."

The Shan scrambled off his note and presently
departed with Harold, who had no intention of
losing sight of his dusky friend till the luncheon-party
was over.  To the Shan's suggestion of the
club and billiards he assented, but to a feeble
suggestion of modest liquids he turned a deaf ear.
On the whole, Denvers was glad to find himself
on his way to the Belgrave.

Mrs. Benstein had already arrived, accompanied
by Angela.  She had fetched the latter, she
explained, so that she would have no time for an
excuse.  A spray of the Cardinal Moth flashed
and trembled on Mrs. Benstein's breast; the same
spray of purple orchid that Angela had worn the
night before in her hair, was tucked into her belt.
Mrs. Benstein was frank and easy and charming
as usual, but there was just a touch of colour in
her cheeks, and her eyes had a brighter sparkle
than usual.

"I have managed everything myself," she cried,
gaily.  "I have even arranged the flowers on the
table.  A strange thing, is it not, that we English
people can arrange flowers!"

"Ah, here is Mr. Parkford."

Parkford came up, alert, quick, and
self-possessed as usual.  Denvers gave him an
inquiring glance, at which he smiled and tapped
his breast-pocket significantly.

"No flowers, any of you!" Mrs. Benstein cried
in affected surprise.  "Here is one for
Mr. Parkford, and there is one for Mr. Denvers.
Positively, I see nothing of the shade to suit the
colouring of His Highness the Shan.  Ah, here is
the very thing!  Excuse me, Miss Lyne."

The speaker bent down and broke off a little
spray of one blossom of the purple orchid from
Angela's belt, and herself fixed it in the lapel of
the Shan's immaculate coat.

"Who can say that it is not in perfect taste?"
she cried.  "It is the very shade.  We will sit
down, and unless Sir Clement Frobisher turns up
in time we will proceed without him."

Angela looked a little disappointed at the
mention of Frobisher's name.  A couple of waiters
busied themselves over the table, a basket of
gold-foiled bottles attracted the Shan's admiring
gaze.  As the big Empire clock over the doorway
of the great red and gold saloon struck the hour
Frobisher appeared.  He drew up grinning and
smiling with perfect self-possession; even the
presence of Denvers did not disconcert him.  He
affected to ignore Harold altogether.  But though
he smiled, there was just the suggestion of a
puzzled pucker between his eyes.  There was
something going on that he did not understand.
He made a mental note of the fact that Angela
and Denvers were not to meet again.

"A pleasant party," he murmured, "and full of
sweet surprises.  But I always was partial to a dainty
salad.  Do you expect any further guests, dear lady?"

"I understand that His Highness the Shan is
waiting for someone," Mrs. Benstein murmured.  "It
is a matter of business, I believe.  Is not somebody
hunting for you over there, your Highness?"

"Hamid Khan, sure enough," the Shan
exclaimed.  "He sees us at last.  He is coming
this way."

Hamid came leisurely along, smiling
deferentially as he caught sight of his master.
The Shan introduced his minister more or less *en
bloc* as Hamid murmured something.  Then his
face suddenly changed, a sickly yellow showed
under his tan as he looked up and met the
slightly-mocking glance of his hostess.

"Hamid Khan and I have met before," Mrs. Benstein
said serenely.  "It was some years ago,
but I have not forgotten."

"Egad, our friend does not duly appreciate his
blessings," Frobisher chuckled as his keen eye
detected the sickly pallor of the newcomer.
"Try one of these liqueurs."

"The heat, the walk in the sun," Hamid
murmured.  "London often affects me in this
way.  If my master will excuse me, I will get my
business done and go away.  My unworthy
presence——"

"Luncheon first," Mrs. Benstein gaily cried.
"For the sake of old times, I cannot be refused.
I confess I am very curious to see that Blue Stone
and the way State documents are sealed.  You
will perform the operation in our presence after
luncheon, will you not, Shan?"

The Shan nodded stolidly.  If some play was
going on he might take his part, he thought,
especially with so brilliant a lady to lead him.
Frobisher's restless little eyes roved from face to
face, but he could read nothing.  The meal
proceeded gaily enough, the only silent person being
Hamid Khan, who seemed restless and ill at ease.
Hardly was the coffee on the table before he rose.

"Mrs. Benstein must excuse me," he said.
"But I have much to do.  If your Highness will
produce the stone I will lay out the necessary
papers and——"

He shrugged his shoulders.  The Shan put down
his glass and nodded.  It was impossible from his
stolid features to guess that he was as utterly
puzzled as Frobisher, which was saying a great
deal.  A sudden silence, a burst of expectation had
fallen on the party.  A burst of laughter from an
adjoining table seemed out of place, incongruous.
The papers were crackling under Hamid Khan's
shaky hand.

"Has anybody a wax-match?" he asked.
"Thank you, sir.  I will get the seals ready."

He proceeded with the aid of a vesta to melt a
piece of white wax on a plate.  These he laid
neatly on a round patch on the paper before him.

"And now for the seal," Mrs. Benstein cried
gaily.  "Pray produce it, your Highness.  I hope
you are not so indiscreet as to carry it loose in
your pocket."

"I have too many enemies for that," the Shan
said, carelessly.  "I have to hide it carefully—in
fact, I ought not to be in the street with it at
all.  Now guess where it is?"

Mrs. Benstein's eyes fairly caressed the speaker.
He wanted an opening lead, and he had contrived
to ask for it in such a manner as to utterly throw
Frobisher off the scent.

"I fancy I can tell," Mrs. Benstein went on.
"Yes, you are not so clever as you imagine.  You
are like the man who hid his bank-note in his tie,
and called the attention of the thieves who dogged
him to the fact by tapping the tie nervously all
the time.  I have seen you glance frequently at
the purple orchid in your coat.  I guess that the
Blue Stone is fixed in the calyx of the orchid."

"A most amazing and clever woman," the
Shan murmured as he removed the flower from his
coat and looked gravely into the calyx of the
bloom.  "By the prophet, there is some foreign
substance here!  I remove it between my thumb
and forefinger, and behold the Blue Stone."

A queer cry broke from Frobisher, who instantly
suppressed it.  Hamid Khan looked up with
dilating eyes and shot a glance almost murderous
at Frobisher.  As to the Shan, he smiled with the
air of a man who has brought off some new and
brilliant feat of conjuring.

"One of Frobisher's orchids too," he said.
"Frobisher, if you drink so fast you'll choke
yourself."





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`A WOMAN'S WAY`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XXIV.


.. class:: center medium bold

   A WOMAN'S WAY.

.. vspace:: 2

Frobisher sat there grinning with his teeth
showing in a kind of smiling snarl.  The
shining dome of his head exuded a beady
moisture, his hand crooked upon the haft of a
dessert-knife, as if it had been a dagger of
melodrama.  A dog sometimes looks like that
when he is being whipped on the chain.  Nobody
spoke for the moment.

There was not the faintest shadow of triumph
on Mrs. Benstein's face.  She merely smiled with
the delighted air of a child who watched some
new and fascinating game.  In a businesslike way
the Shan reached for Hamid Khan's document and
called for the wax.

"That is a very pretty and ingenious hiding-place,"
Mrs. Benstein said at length.  "No enemy
would think of looking for it there.  Your Highness
has many enemies?"

"Ask Hamid Khan yonder," the Shan said
crisply.  "He can tell you."

The wretched Hamid wriggled and bowed.  It
was evident that he had been taken quite by
surprise.  The Shan sealed the documents and
carelessly tossed them across the table.  The
Blue Stone glittered there well within the reach
of Frobisher, and his fingers itched for it.

"Put the jewel away," he said hoarsely.  "It
is dangerous to leave it there."

"A fresh hiding-place," the Shan laughed.  "I
feel quite nervous.  Suppose that I get Parkford
to take care of it for me until I get home.  He is
a man to be trusted, and not a man lightly to
molest.  Sir, will you do me the favour?"

Parkford coolly dropped the gem into his
waistcoat pocket.  At the same time he passed a
folded strip of paper to Mrs. Benstein and nodded
significantly.  Then he rose.

"I am desolated," he said, "but really I have to
leave.  Denvers, a word with you."

The luncheon-party broke up upon this,
Mrs. Benstein alone remaining.  She had arranged to
wait here for a friend, she explained.  Frobisher
slid away, followed by Hamid Khan, and outside
Denvers put Angela into a passing taxi.  He had
work before him this afternoon.

"That was very neatly done," Parkford said to
the Shan.  "It was a pleasure to see Frobisher's
face.  You saw me pass my cheque over to
Mrs. Benstein, who will hand it to her husband.  If
you take my advice you will allow me to deposit
the Blue Stone with my bankers for the present.
I am going that way, and I shall see that it is
all safe."

"Put it where you like," the Shan said,
recklessly.  "It's all the same to me, knowing as
I do that I have an honest man to deal with.
This rigid virtue of mine is undermining my
constitution.  I'll go off to the club, and try and
get a game of bridge.  Dine with me to-night,
Denvers?"

Denvers excused himself on the plea of urgent
business; besides, it was strongly probable that
His Highness of Koordstan would be beyond
entertaining by dinner-time.

"You've got our dusky friend out of a tight
place," Harold suggested.

"So I suppose," Parkford said, indifferently.
"I like this kind of intrigue, and I have a fancy
for acting unofficially for the Government.
Sometimes the hobby proves expensive, sometimes
the information is valuable.  In this case I am
going to make a good thing out of it.  I am very
glad, for your sake, that you told Lord Rashburn
all about it.  It's given me a grip upon the Shan,
and I'll see that you get your concessions.  But
we must discuss that another time."

Harold went on his way with hope rising high
within him.  He began to see his way clear now,
once the mystery of the Cardinal Moth was
fathomed.  Lefroy passed him presently, and
turned into the Belgrave.  Harold wondered if
this was the friend whom Mrs. Benstein was
expecting.

It was.  Lefroy came up to the table where
Mrs. Benstein was seated and took a chair by her
side.  There was no smile of welcome on her face.

"I am charmed to come at your summons," the
Count said, placidly.

"That is very good of you," Mrs. Benstein
said.  "Whether you remain in that frame of
mind is quite another matter.  I asked you to
meet me here because my time is limited, and I
have business close by.  As you see from the table
I have had guests to luncheon."

"I envy them from the bottom of my soul,"
Lefroy murmured.

"I would not waste envy on some of them,
Count.  For instance, Frobisher and Hamid Khan.
The Shan of Koordstan came here as my guest;
he put off important affairs of State to please me.
But I was thoughtful.  I said that Hamid Khan
should come on here and bring the papers that he
required sealing with him."

"The documents that required the impress of
the Blue Stone?" Lefroy asked.

"The same.  Here is the wax cool and hard
now upon the Limoges plate, and with which the
deed was done.  On the whole it was an
interesting ceremony, and nobody was more interested
than Clement Frobisher.  Never has that most
beautiful smile been so much in evidence."

Lefroy coloured slightly.  He was not so
obviously at his ease now.

"Hamid Khan was also deeply moved," Mrs. Benstein
went on.  "Really, I believe that both
of the men I have mentioned expected that the
Blue Stone would not be produced in evidence.
But it was.  And where do you think it came from?
You can never guess, of course."

Lefroy muttered something to the effect that
his talents did not lie in that direction.  He was
conscious of a steely glitter in the eyes of the
woman he was near.

"Then I had better tell you," she went on.  "He
took the stone out of a great purple orchid he was
wearing.  It was all the more strange that just
before I broke that very flower from a cluster worn
by Miss Lyne.  Do you remember placing a cluster
of those flowers in her hair at my request last
night?"

"I remember that circumstance perfectly well,
Mrs. Benstein."

"Well, it was one of the same cluster of flowers.
And I feel quite certain now that when at my
request you adorned Miss Lyne last night in the
conservatory, the Blue Stone was hidden in that
very blossom.  Does that intelligence appeal to
you in any way, Count Lefroy?"

"You are an exceedingly clever woman," the
Count said hoarsely, but with sincere admiration.
"So that is the way you baffled us last night.
And all the time I had actually the Blue Stone in
my hand.  And I'll swear that Miss Lyne was not
in the secret."

"She was not; her face would have betrayed
her.  Now you can imagine the pleasure with
which I watched Sir Clement and Hamid Khan
across the luncheon-table.  And you call Frobisher
a clever man!"

"He is by far and away the cleverest man I
ever met, Madame."

"He is nothing of the kind," Mrs. Benstein said
contemptuously.  "For depth and cunning he
has no equal, I admit.  But intellect he has
little, and imagination none at all.  The fellow
generally scores because his plots, as a rule, are
laid against honest people.  But I saw through
him from the first.  He was going to make use of
me—me!  I would pit myself against him and
win every time.  If he had not been prepared to
play the bully and the coward last night I would
have spared him, but not now.  Before long that
man will stand in the dock, and take heed lest you
stand there by his side."

Mrs. Benstein's voice had sunk to a hissing
whisper, her eyes flashed with passion.

"It is hard to know what I have done," Lefroy
murmured.

"It would be hard to say what you have not
done," was the swift reply.  "You, too, were
ready last night to apply force to a desperate
woman.  But I beat you, and it is part of my
revenge to tell you how the trick was done.  You
will never have another chance to get possession
of the Blue Stone and ruin the Shan by your plots
together with Hamid Khan.  You would have
made use of me, now I am going to make use of
you.  Here comes my husband.  When he has
done with you I shall dictate my terms.
Meanwhile, if your nerves are not equal to the
strain there are many kinds of wines here."

Lefroy declined the proffered hospitality.  He
began to feel like one of his own puppets as
Benstein nodded ponderously and sat down.  The
interview had evidently been arranged for.

"I am glad of this opportunity for a little chat,"
Benstein said, ponderously.  His fat cheeks were
shaking, his hand was not quite so steady as it
might have been.  He seemed to be fumbling for
something in the capacious pocket of a coat far
too large for his bulky figure.  "I was going to
look you up, but my wife said she would arrange
the matter."

"We have had a lot of business transactions
together," Lefroy suggested.

"But there is going to be no more, my friend,"
Benstein said.  "You are too dangerous—you are
too many for the old man whose sight is not what
it used to be.  It is about those Koordstan
possessions that you pledged with me for a large
sum of money.  I keep them by me, I regard them
as good business, until one day I show them to my
wife.  And what does she say?"

"It is impossible to hazard the suggestion what so
clever a woman would say," Lefroy murmured.

"She says that the whole thing is forgery.
Then I look quietly into the matter, and surely
enough I find that the whole thing is a forgery.
I stand to lose ten thousand pounds.  My first
impulse is to go off to the police and ask for a
warrant to issue against you.  When you take my
money you take part of my body.  Still, if you
pay me the money now, I say nothing further."

Lefroy nodded thoughtfully.  He was not in
the least abashed; he made no attempt to deny
the truth of Aaron Benstein's accusation.  He
would have to find the money, but how, was quite
another matter.

"If you give me a little time," he said, "I
shall hope to see my way."

"Ah! ah!—a little time—seven years perhaps
the Judge will say.  But I leave it to my wife—she
is the clever one.  My dear, what shall I do?"

"At the present moment put on your hat and
go back to the City," Mrs. Benstein said.  "I
fancy I shall know how to deal with Count Lefroy.
You can't have your money back and your revenge
as well.  I fancy you can safely leave me to settle
matters."

Aaron Benstein was certain of it.  He beamed
proudly at his wife and kissed his fingers as he
put on his hat and most obediently waddled out
of the room.  For a long while neither party at the
table spoke.

"I'm afraid that I don't quite understand you,"
Lefroy ventured at length.

"You are not meant to understand me," Isa
Benstein retorted.  "For the present you are
going to be my puppet and dance when I pull the
strings.  Play me fair, and you shall not suffer
for the wrong you have done my husband; play
me false, and you shall stand in the dock within
an hour after.  Come, sir, it is the turn of the
woman towards whom you and another scoundrel
last night would have shown personal violence had
you dared.  For the present I shall be content
with plain replies to plain questions.  Do you
know from whence Frobisher obtained the Cardinal Moth?"

"I am not quite sure, but I can give a pretty
good guess," Lefroy said.

"We shall come to that presently.  Was
Manfred well acquainted with the properties of
that accursed flower?"

"I should say not.  Of course he had a good
idea of its value and what one could do with it."

"Quite so.  Then I suppose that I am correct
in assuming that on the night of his death Manfred
was party to a conspiracy to steal the orchid from
Sir Clement Frobisher; in other words, he acted
as your agent, and he was killed in the act of
purloining the flower?"

Lefroy wriggled uneasily and muttered something.
But Mrs. Benstein pinned him firmly down.

"I shall abandon you to your fate unless you
speak frankly," she said.  "Was Manfred trying
to steal the Cardinal Moth when he met with
his death?"

"You may take that for a fact," Lefroy said,
as if the words were dragged from him.

"Very good.  Manfred was going to steal the
Moth which previously had been stolen by Sir
Clement's agent from somebody else.  Who sold
the Moth to Sir Clement?"

"I am not quite certain, but I believe it was
Paul Lopez," said Lefroy.

Mrs. Benstein rose from her seat, and flicked a
solitary crumb from her dress.  On the whole she
did not seem displeased with the day's work.

"Enough for the present," she said.  "Take me
out and see me into a swift taxi."





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.. _`A STRIKING LIKENESS`:

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   CHAPTER XXV.


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   A STRIKING LIKENESS.

.. vspace:: 2

Frobisher had passed a bad night, and he
looked as if he were likely to have an
equally unpleasant morning.  A small
dealer out St. Alban's way claimed to have found
three new orchids in his last speculative parcel,
and Frobisher had set his mind on seeing them
before some other soulless and selfish collector
stepped in.  But a slip of blue paper, humorously
accompanied by a shilling, told him that his
presence was imperative at the adjourned inquest
on the body of the man unknown, who had been
found murdered in the greenhouse at Streatham.

"Now what possible connection can I have
with that?" he grumbled, as he ate his breakfast.
"It was bad enough for Manfred to thoughtlessly
lose his life in my conservatory: And here's a
letter from George Arnott.  He has a great deal
of complaint about you, Angela."

"I am properly flattered by his consideration,"
Angela said coldly.

"Oh, that's all very well, young lady.  But you
are going to marry George Arnott all the same.
That young scoundrel Denvers had better make
the most of his time."

"He will do that without any encouragement
from you," Angela replied.  "Mr. Arnott is an
unspeakable little cad, and I would as soon marry
your butler.  Indeed, I insult the butler by
comparison."

An ugly smile crossed Frobisher's face, but he
carried the conversation no further.  He was
puzzled and bewildered, and neither feeling was
palatable.  He had been outgeneralled by a
woman, and the reflection was bitter.  But he was
going to have his own way over this matter, as
Angela would discover.

"Mr. Arnott to see you, sir," the butler
announced.  "In the library, sir."

Arnott seemed to be anxious about something.
He was fussing up and down the library with a
mass of papers in his hand.  His manner was
hardly flattering.

"Well, you have made a nice mess of it," he said,
"you and Lefroy between you.  He's bolted."
Frobisher chuckled for the first time since he rose.

"Bet you a penny old Benstein had found out
all about those forgeries," he said.  "Lefroy
didn't know that I was *au fait* as to that
transaction.  So Lefroy has retired discreetly—urgent
business on behalf of the master, and all that kind
of thing, eh?  That leaves the field clear for us."

"To a certain extent, perhaps.  But you won't
get the concessions.  Hamid Khan has been
utterly beaten by Mrs. Benstein and your friend
Harold Denvers.  It appears that Mrs. Benstein
knew Hamid Khan years ago, he being no more of
a Koord than you or I.  The Shan has dismissed
him, and at the present moment is on his way to
Paris with Denvers."

A round rasping oath shot from Frobisher's lips.
"So that young blackguard was in it," he
exclaimed.  "I fancied so."

"In it!  In it up to his neck.  I bribed one
of the Shan's servants.  Why, Denvers, calling
himself Aben Abdullah or some such name, and
beautifully disguised, was in your house the night
before last at your wife's dance.  It was he who
stopped your little game and enabled
Mrs. Benstein to turn the tables on you.  Those
concessions are as good as in Denvers' pocket."

"But where did the money come from to get
that gem out of Benstein's clutches?  I know for
a fact that the Shan is desperately hard up for the
moment."

"What does that matter?" Arnott asked
irritably.  "You were at Mrs. Benstein's
luncheon-party at the Belgrave yesterday.  Who was there
besides the actors in the game?  You are losing
your wits, Frobisher.  What do you suppose
Parkford was doing there?"

Frobisher slapped his bald head helplessly.

"I never thought of that," he said blankly.
"I'd go to Paris myself, only I've got to attend
an inquest.  Come and dine quietly to-night and
discuss the plan of campaign.  I shall find some
way out yet.  Now just you toddle off and keep
your tongue between your teeth."

"And what about Miss Lyne?" Arnott asked.

"That's going to be all right—you can safely
trust the young lady to me.  She doesn't realise
what I am capable of.  Though why you should
want to marry a girl who hates you and despises
you from the bottom of her heart is more than I
can comprehend.  Eight o'clock sharp to-night."

Frobisher travelled down to Streatham a little
later, and devoutly hoped that his own evidence
would be a matter of form.  But the hall in which
the inquest was to be held was crammed with
curious onlookers, for the dual sensation caused
by two mysterious deaths under similar
circumstances had not been forgotten by the
public.  Frobisher but rarely glanced at the
newspapers except *The Times*, or he would have
known that "the orchid mystery," as it had been
called, was the sensation of the hour.  Only by
the aid of two friendly policemen did he reach
a seat in court.

The proceedings were drawing on, evidence of
a formal nature only being called at present.
Frobisher nodded to Inspector Townsend, whom
he recognized as an old acquaintance.

"Something horribly nasty about perspiring
humanity," he said.  "I should like to turn a
garden-hose on to the gallery yonder.  What on
earth do you want me for, Townsend?"

Townsend admitted that there might be one or
two points on which Sir Clement's evidence might
prove material.  He was not quite sure what the
barrister for the authorities had in his mind.
Frobisher glanced at his watch from time to time
impatiently; he had forgotten his surroundings
utterly, when the sound of his own name brought
him back to the present with a start.  Leisurely
and with perfect self-possession he entered the
box and was sworn.

"I want to ask you a few questions," the
Crown counsel said.  "You have read something
of the case, Sir Clement?"

"I have heard of it, though I am afraid I shall
be of very little use to you."

"We shall see.  This man, whom I shall call
the unknown for the reason that he has not yet
been identified, was found dead, murdered in a
greenhouse at Streatham.  He had been strangled
by means of a hair rope twisted about his neck
and pulled tight with great force from behind."

"That you are perfectly sure of?" Frobisher
said with a suggestion of a grin.

"At any rate, it will serve for a theory at
present.  In that greenhouse, upon the authority
of Thomas Silverthorne, was a valuable orchid
which had been placed there by a stranger some
time before.  After the murder of the unknown
that orchid had absolutely disappeared."

"Very strange," Frobisher said indifferently,
"but of no particular interest to me."

"Perhaps we shall make it more interesting
presently," Counsel retorted.  "We are inclined
to believe that two people were after the orchid—the
man who was killed and the man who killed
him and took the orchid away.  The plant must
have been singularly valuable and possibly unique
in its way to induce a crime like this.  The whole
thing is very strange and singular, and it is
rendered more so by the fact that a precisely similar
crime was committed in your conservatory the same
night.  You have valuable orchids, Sir Clement?"

Frobisher nodded.  He was not quite so cool
now, and an irritating lump was working at the
back of his throat.  His quick mind began to see
what was behind these apparently innocent
questions.

"I have probably the finest collection in
England," he replied.

"Many of them would tempt a thief, I suppose?"

"Well, I dare say.  There are orchid collectors
all over the world, you see.  Once a man gets hold
of that passion it seldom leaves him.  A valuable
stolen orchid would be a marketable commodity."

"The same as stolen books or prints, eh?  The
commercial morality of all collectors is supposed
to be low.  What you mean to say is that an
orchid of repute would be bought by some
collectors well knowing that it had been obtained
by questionable means?"

"I've no doubt about it," Frobisher admitted.
"I have known such cases."

"Then here we have a motive for the crime.
Let me refer to your own case for a moment.
What do you suppose Mr. Manfred was doing in
your conservatory at the time he died?  He
refused to dine under plea of a headache; he was
supposed to be lying down, and yet he was found
dead near your flowers.  Do you think he was
after one of them?"

"The inference is a fair one," Frobisher said,
guardedly.

Counsel smiled as he stroked his moustache.  He
was getting to the point now.

"Did you or do you suspect Mr. Manfred was
after a particular plant?" he asked.

Frobisher started.  He saw the trap instantly.
The smiling little man with the bland questions
knew a great deal more than he had told as yet.
He was not so much asking questions as inviting
the witness to make admissions.  He had been
primed doubtless by Mrs. Benstein and Denvers.
The lump in the back of Frobisher's throat grew
large, the easy smile flickered and died on his face.

"I have a score that are almost unique," he
said.  "Under the circumstances——"

Counsel waved the point aside.  His experience
told him that he was alarming his witness.  He
started on another tack which was destined to be
even more disturbing to Frobisher's peace of mind.

"Let me put it another way," he said in his
silkiest manner.  "We are pretty certain that a
valuable orchid was stolen from Streatham.  You
tell me that commercial morality among collectors
is not high, and that a plant like that would be a
marketable commodity.  Would you buy it, for
example?"

"I would go a long way in that direction,"
Frobisher said with a touch of his old cynicism.

"You would!  Now I am going to ask you a
direct question.  I need not tell you the hour at
which the unknown was murdered at Streatham
because you know that as well as I do.  Now since
that time have you added to your collection an
orchid of extraordinary interest?"

Frobisher gasped.  He had not expected the
question.  He was like a man who suddenly sees
before him a deep and yawning precipice in the
path of flowers.  And the chasm was so deep and
yawning that he could not see to the bottom of it.
He hesitated and stammered.

"I certainly bought a valuable orchid the same
night," he admitted.

"Ah!  Now we are getting on, indeed.  The
orchid you bought was unique!"

"Well, that is a fair description of it.  Nothing
like it has been seen before."

"An orchid the like of which has never been
seen before!  Come, this is very interesting.  Can
you tell us if the plant in question has any
particular name?"

"It is called 'The Cardinal Moth,'" Frobisher
admitted slowly.  The words seemed to be
dragged from him; he half wondered what had
become of his voice.  "It came originally from
Koordstan."

"Stolen," the Counsel cried.  "The orchid, sir,
is unique.  It was used to guard the Temple of
Ghan.  It is supposed to possess certain sinister
qualities.  Criminals who were sent into the place
where the Moth hung never came out alive, they
always died, as the two unhappy men whose cases
we have under consideration perished.  The
sentence was to pluck a flower from the Cardinal
Moth.  The flowers were plucked, and when the
great gates were thrown back the criminal was
dead, strangled.  Sir Clement, I presume that you
knew all about this before you purchased the
Cardinal Moth the other night."

"Every collector of intelligence knows the
story," Frobisher admitted.

"So when the treasure came in your way you
could not resist the temptation of purchase.  Now,
pray be careful.  Did you not buy the Cardinal
Moth about an hour or two, say, after the unknown
was found murdered in that conservatory at
Streatham?"

Frobisher wiped his shining head; his hand was
shaking slightly.

"If you put it that way, I did," he said.  "It
was brought to me and offered for sale that night
and I bought it."

"What did you give for it?"

Frobisher gaped open-mouthed at the question.
It came back to him with sudden force that he
had not given anything for the Moth at all, he
had only promised for Lopez's sake to tell a lie and
stick to it.  Counsel rapped sharply on the table
before him.

"I asked you what you gave for the Cardinal
Moth?" he exclaimed.

"A trifle," Frobisher admitted.  "Well, nothing
in money at all.  You see, the man who sold it to
me——"

"Can you see the man in court?  Look round
and let us know if he is here."

Frobisher slowly looked round the court, not
so much to find Lopez as to regain his own
scattered wits.





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.. _`A BAD QUARTER OF AN HOUR`:

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   CHAPTER XXVI.


.. class:: center medium bold

   A BAD QUARTER OF AN HOUR.

.. vspace:: 2

Frobisher passed a handkerchief over
his shining head slowly, with a feeling
that he was going through the ordeal of a
Turkish bath.  It was a long time before he was
quite sure that the vendor of the Cardinal Moth
was not in court.  The little questioner smiled as
Frobisher shook his head.  Evidently he had a
powerful reserve behind him.  He switched off
on to another track presently.

"You know all about the history of the
Cardinal Moth?" he asked.

"Every collector does," Frobisher replied.  "It
has been known for centuries.  Times out of
number adventurers have tried to obtain the
whole plant, or, at any rate, a small portion of
it, but without success.  Generally the attempt
has ended in disaster to the adventurers."

"You mean that usually they have been killed?"

"Precisely.  They have died of strangulation
as—as Mr. Manfred did."

"Quite so.  You don't suggest that there is
anything Satanic or diabolical about the Moth?
No cruel force from an unseen world, or anything
of that kind?"

"Certainly not," Frobisher said with the
suspicion of a sneer.  "Although such a thing is
firmly believed in Koordstan and elsewhere."

"Then there is some trick, some danger.  Now,
Sir Clement, listen to me carefully.  You knew
all about this strange fatality that clings to the
Cardinal Moth, you know that Mr. Manfred met
his death by that terrible way, and that tragedy
at Streatham was more or less a repetition of the
thing that happened under your roof.  You can't
deny that."

"Have I made any attempt to do so?" Frobisher retorted.

"I didn't suggest anything of the kind,"
Counsel snapped.  "But I do say that you
suppressed, deliberately suppressed, what you
knew to be facts of the deepest import.  Why did
you not tell all this to the police?  Why didn't
you mention it to Sir James Brownsmith and
other friends?"

Frobisher mumbled something in reply.  It
came to him suddenly that he was older than he
ought to be, that his nerve was no longer what
it once had been.  He called to mind the many
brilliant knaves who had from time to time stepped
jauntily into a witness-box contemptuous of the
inferiority of the cross-questioner, and who had
an hour later tottered from the court a broken
man.  How much did this little keen-eyed man
know? he asked himself.  He would have given
half his fortune to be quite clear on that point.
But he could not answer the question satisfactorily.

"Nothing could have been gained by that
course," he said.

"And you want the court to believe that?"
Counsel cried.  "Here were you with something
like a correct solution in your mind and you keep
silence.  When did you buy the Cardinal Moth?"

"It was on the night of the Streatham tragedy,"
Frobisher admitted.

"Indeed!  Was the man you purchased that
plant from a stranger to you?"

"No.  On the contrary, I have known him
for years.  He was with me the night before as
well."

"Worse and worse," Counsel protested.  "Tell
me, Sir Clement, have you ever made an attempt
to raid the Cardinal Moth in person or in
conjunction with others?"

"I laid a plot to get possession of it," Frobisher
admitted coolly enough.  He felt that he could
afford to be cynical and frank on this point.
"But my plans miscarried.  The plant was divided
into three portions.  One was lost sight of, in
America, I fancy; the other was lost at Stamboul,
where I came very near to losing my life as well.
And the third plant was burned at Turin."

"Was that by accident or design?"

"Design, doubtless.  The hotel was deliberately
set on fire."

"Interesting," Counsel murmured.  "What
was the name of your ally at Turin?"

"I'm sorry I cannot remember.  In the many
busy incidents in a life like mine——"

"One moment, if you please.  And don't
forget that you are on your oath.  Now wasn't
the name of your partner who got as far as Turin
Count Lefroy?"

Frobisher snarled out something that sounded
between an affirmative or an oath.  He was
clinging to the rail of the witness-box now; there
was a perceptible stoop in his shoulders and his
lips quivered.  The little man went on with his
merciless questions, smiling as he scored one point
after another.

"Count Lefroy has been your partner in many
a financial venture?" he asked.  "But you have
dissolved partnership of recent years; you could
not trust one another?"

"The steel was too finely tempered in us both,"
said Frobisher, with a touch of his old humour.

"And so you parted.  Now let us get on a
little further.  Of late you have been very anxious
to obtain certain concessions from the Shan
of Koordstan.  Count Lefroy was equally anxious.
And the Shan, not being so very popular with his
subjects at present, would have liked to get the
Cardinal Moth back again.  Now were you
prepared to change the Moth for the concessions?"

"I confess that some such idea was in my
mind," Frobisher admitted.

"In which case was it not dangerous to ask
Count Lefroy to your house?  I mean to luncheon
to show him the Moth, and afterwards the
invitation to the fatal dinner?"

"I can't say," Frobisher replied.  "I really
can't see what——"

"Oh, yes you can; a clever man like yourself
can see everything.  The Count was as anxious
to have the Moth as you were, also with an eye
to these concessions.  He was more anxious
because he had already mortgaged the so-called
concession to Mr. Aaron Benstein for a large sum
of money.  Did you know of that?"

Frobisher hesitated a long time before he replied.
He had grown singularly hot and confused; he could
see no more than that a trap was being laid for him,
but the bait was invisible.  There was nothing
for it but to tell the truth and trust to chance.

"I was quite aware of what Count Lefroy
had done," he said.

"And yet you showed him the Cardinal Moth.
He was very angry and he struck Manfred in your
presence.  He gave you to infer that he had by
the merest chance lost the Moth itself.  In other
words, the man who had stolen it brought it to
you instead of to Count Lefroy."

Frobisher nodded.  He was smiling recklessly
and a little hysterically now, wondering how
many hours he had been standing there under
the rigid fire of questions.  As he glanced up at a
big clock over the coroner's head, to his intense
surprise he saw that it was barely twenty minutes.

"Count Lefroy had made up his mind to steal
that plant," Counsel went on.  "Didn't you
guess that?"

"I felt pretty sure that he would make the
attempt, yes."

"As a matter of fact, we contend that the
attempt was made.  It was all arranged.  The
night of your dinner, Mr. Manfred sat out under
the pretence of a bad headache.  The house was
quiet and you were engaged with your guests, and
Manfred knew exactly where to go.  He made the
attempt, and in doing so lost his life."

"It looks very much like it," Frobisher said,
hoarsely.

"Do you know exactly how he lost his life?"
Counsel asked.

The question came quick and short like the
snapping of a steel trap.  Frobisher understood
the import of it, nobody else practically did.  He
glanced at Townsend, who appeared to be deeply
interested in a newspaper; the Coroner was
gazing at the painted ceiling.  An unconquerable
rush of rage possessed the witness.

"Hang you, find out," he cried.  "To the devil
with you and your questions.  How should I know
the secret that the priests of Ghan have kept
so closely all these centuries?  All I know is, that
anybody who tampers with the Moth under
certain conditions dies, and——"

The Coroner suddenly woke up and sternly
rebuked the witness.  He listened humbly enough
now, for he was spent and broken again, only
longing passionately to be away.

"I am truly sorry, sir, but the question irritated
me," he said.  "Anybody would think that I
had a hand in the death of poor Manfred."

"Nobody has suggested anything of the kind,"
Counsel went on as smoothly as if nothing had
happened.  "All I contend is, that you can
practically solve the problem if you choose.  But
let us hark back a little way again.  What is the
name of the man who sold you the orchid?"

"His name is Paul Lopez," Frobisher said in
a tone so low that he was asked to repeat it again.
He passed his tongue over his dry lips.  "I can
tell you no more than that."

"Is he a stranger to you, or have you known
him a long time?"

Sorely tempted to lie, Frobisher hesitated
a moment.  But once more the cruel uncertainty
of the knowledge possessed by the little man
opposite forced the truth from him.

"I have known Paul Lopez for years," he
said.  "He has done many little things for me.
But I swear to you now—as I am prepared to
swear anywhere—that the Cardinal Moth came
to me as a complete surprise.  I never expected
it, and I was absolutely astonished when I
saw it."

"Then you have no idea whence it came?"

"Not the slightest.  It never occurred to me
to ask any questions."

"The wise man does not ask questions," Counsel
said dryly.  "Possibly your curiosity would not
have been gratified, in any case.  But I suppose
that you had an idea, eh?  You feel pretty
sure now that the plant was stolen from
Streatham?"

"That is mere conjecture on your part,"
Frobisher replied.

"Oh, no, it isn't.  I shall be in a position to
prove the fact when the time comes.  You can
step down for the moment, Sir Clement, though
I shall have to trouble you again.  Call Paul
Lopez."

Townsend put down his paper and stood up.

"It will be quite useless, sir," he said.  "Lopez
has disappeared.  My information tells me that
he has gone in the first instance as far as Paris.
Perhaps later on we may be able to produce
him, but that will require more than the usual
subpoena."

The Coroner woke up again, and his eyes came
down from the ceiling.  Yet he had missed nothing
of what was going on, as his next question showed.

"That is rather unfortunate, Inspector," he
said.  "What do you propose to do now?"

"Ask for an adjournment till Thursday, sir,"
Townsend said.  "Then I hope to call Sir James
Brownsmith, who I am sure will have a great
deal to say.  If that course is quite convenient
to you——"

The Coroner snapped out a few words, and the
crowd in the gallery began to fade away.  In a kind
of walking dream Sir Clement Frobisher found
himself outside.  He felt as if many years had
been added to his life; he was shaking from head
to foot.  The gold sign of a decent hotel caught
his eye.  The white legend, "Wines and spirits,"
allured him.  Somebody was speaking to him, but
he did not heed.

Then he became conscious that Mrs. Benstein
was standing before him.  She had been in court,
but he had not seen her.  He muttered some
commonplaces now, he tottered across the street
and into a bar which was empty.  The smart girl
behind looked at him curiously as he ordered a
large brandy-and-soda.  The soda he almost
discarded, he poured the strong spirit down
his throat, and a little life crept into his
quivering lips.

Meanwhile Mrs. Benstein stood by the door of
her car.  She appeared to be waiting for
somebody.  From the bar window the now resuscitated
Frobisher watched and wondered.  He saw
Townsend come out of court; he saw
Mrs. Benstein stop him as he touched his cap.

"I'd give a trifle to hear what they are saying,"
Frobisher muttered.  "I wish I had never seen
that confounded woman.  I am growing senile.
Fancy being beaten by a woman!"

Mrs. Benstein had very little to say to
Townsend, but that little was to the point.

"If you can lay hands on Lopez, what shall
you do?" she asked.

"Arrest him on suspicion of the Streatham
murder," Townsend said promptly.

"Which he never committed.  Still, it is the
proper thing to do.  Now tell me where I can
give you a call upon the telephone about ten
o'clock to-night."





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`MRS. BENSTEIN INTERVENES`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XXVII.


.. class:: center medium bold

   MRS. BENSTEIN INTERVENES.

.. vspace:: 2

Mrs. Benstein was dining alone and early,
for Benstein had an important engagement
later, and usually he made a point of being
in bed betimes.  He had had a good day, which
was no uncommon thing for him, and he was
loquacious and talkative as usual.  From the head
of the table Mrs. Benstein smiled and nodded,
but, as a matter of fact, she had not the least idea
what her husband was talking about.  Not until
the coffee was on the table and the cigarettes
going round did she speak.  She always liked
her coffee in that perfect old Tudor dining-room—the
dark oak and the silver and the shaded lights
all made so restful a picture.

"Now I want to give you half an hour," she
said.  "You will be in plenty of time to see Lord
Rayfield afterwards.  Did you read the account
of the Streatham inquest in the *Evening Standard*
as I asked you?"

"Read every word of it whilst I was dressing,"
Benstein said.

Mrs. Benstein smiled.  From the way her
husband was dressed, the paper in question had
monopolized most of his attention.  At any rate,
he seemed to have grasped the case.

"What did you think of it?" she asked.

"Well, it's a queer business," Benstein said,
thoughtfully.  "Seems to me to be a lot of fuss
to make about a paltry flower that any accident
might destroy.  Never could understand Frobisher
wasting his money over that sort of trash."

"No, you wouldn't," Mrs. Benstein said, quietly.
"But mind you, that flower is more or less of a
sacred thing, and the Shan of Koordstan would
have given his head to get it.  He's Oriental through
and through, despite his thin veneer of polish and
his Western vices.  I suppose those concessions
that the Shan has to dispose of are valuable?"

Benstein's deep-set little eyes twinkled.

"Give a million for 'em and chance it," he
said.  "So you think that Frobisher——"

"Precisely.  Much as he loves orchids, he
didn't want the Cardinal Moth for keeping, as
the Americans say.  With that lever he meant to
get hold of those concessions.  Now I have
discovered that it was young Harold Denvers
who found the Cardinal Moth and brought it to
England.  He took it down to Streatham, thinking
that it would be safe there.  But Paul Lopez
got to know about it, and so did another man,
apparently—I mean the man who was murdered."

"You think that he was murdered by Lopez, Isa?"

Mrs. Benstein made no reply, but smiled
significantly.  She might have startled her husband
with some strange information, but she did not
care to do so at present.

"That will be the general impression after
to-day's proceedings," she said.  "And Paul
Lopez has disappeared.  But I feel pretty sure
that he has not left England."

"I am certain of it," Benstein chuckled.
"Lopez has never got any money.  He tried me
for a loan only yesterday to take him away.
Guess I could put my hand upon him in an hour."

"You think he is to be found at that gambling
club you are so interested in?"

"Certain of it, my dear.  Lopez is friendly
enough with old Chiavari, who has found him a
bed and food before now.  Rare good customer
to Chiavari he has been.  If Lopez is not hiding
at 17, Panton Street, I'm no judge.  Do you want
to see him?"

Mrs. Benstein intimated that she did, at which
Benstein said nothing and evinced no surprise.
He had the most profound, almost senile confidence
in his wife and her intelligence, and she did
exactly as she liked, and her obedient husband
asked no questions.

"Very well, my dear," he said, as he rose and
looked at the clock.  "I'm going past Chiavari's
and I'll look in.  If Lopez is there, expect him
in half an hour."

Benstein waddled out of the room and presently
left the house.  Something seemed to amuse
Mrs. Benstein as she sat in the drawing-room
before her piano.  Half an hour passed, the
clock was striking nine, and the footman opened
the door to admit a stranger.

"A gentleman to see you, madame," he murmured.
"He says you would not know his name."

Isa Benstein signalled assent.  She closed the
door as Lopez came in and led the way to a small
room beyond, furnished as a library more or
less.  There was an American roll-top desk and
a telephone over it.  Isa Benstein pushed a box
of cigarettes towards her companion.

"How did you guess where to find me?" he asked.

"I didn't guess," Isa Benstein said, quietly.
"I never guess anything.  You were near the
Coroner's court this morning, because I saw
you.  You did not deem it prudent to appear, so
you had a friend who gave you the news *en passant*.
After that you would deem it prudent to go away
for a little while beyond the range of the police.
But unfortunately as usual you have no money."

"Correct and logical in every detail," Lopez
cried.  "What a couple we should have made."

"You indeed!  The brilliant wife and the equally
brilliant husband who would have gambled everything
away as soon as it was made.  Strange, too, a
man so clever could be such a fool.  So here you are
stranded in London without a feather to fly with."

"Correct again.  Unless you are going to help me."

"Why should I help you?  You are friendless
as well as penniless.  There is only one man in
London who would be glad for his own sake to
supply you with funds, and that is Sir Clement
Frobisher.  But you dare not go near him or write
to him or have any communication with him for
fear of the police."

"Once more absolutely correct, Isa.  Truly
a wonderful woman.  If you fail me——"

"We shall come to that presently.  What
do you know of that Streatham business?"

"Very little indeed.  If you want me to swear
on my oath that I had nothing to do with the
crime I am prepared to do so."

"But you know perfectly well who the man is.
He was lying dead on the floor of the conservatory
at Streatham, at the very time when you stole
the Crimson Moth placed there by Mr. Denvers."

Lopez started and turned colour slightly.  He
did not know that this was mere conjecture on
the part of his questioner, but it was.  Speaking
from her intimate knowledge and calculating by
time she felt sure that she had not been far
wrong.  And here was the face of Lopez
confirming her impressions.

"You need not trouble to deny it," she went
on.  "I know pretty well everything.
Mr. Denvers had not left many minutes before the
accident happened.  Was there an automatic
steam-pipe in the conservatory?"

"Of course.  And you may be quite certain
that—but do you really know everything, Isa?"

"Absolutely.  I can speak from experience.
I did not know till the night of Lady Frobisher's
party, but I found out then.  If you don't believe
me, look here."

Mrs. Benstein bared her arm, and displayed the
cruel circular wound above the elbow.  She was
very pale now, and her eyes were dark.  Very
slowly she pulled her sleeve down again.

"Now you can tell how much I know," she said.
"Who was the man who lost his life at Streatham?"

"I don't know his name, but he appeared very
familiar to me.  He was a Greek, a tool of Lefroy's
and that queer fellow Manfred.  He was too
adventurous, and he died."

"And Manfred was too adventurous and he
died also.  I was a little curious, and I nearly
met the same fate.  That fate was deliberately
planned for me by Frobisher; in intent that
scoundrel is as guilty of murder as if he had fired
at me from behind cover.  He thought to trick me,
to make me his puppet and tool, and by flattering
my vanity obtain possession of the Blue Stone."

"Only the scheme did not come off," Lopez grinned.

"It failed, because I have ten times Sir
Clement's brains and none of his low cunning.
But the scheme would never have been tried at all
had you not suggested it."

"I!" Lopez stammered.  "Do you mean to say——"

"You suggested it; you told Frobisher where
the Blue Stone was.  His quick brain did the rest.
Now perhaps you begin to guess why I sent for
you to-night."

"I thought perhaps you intended to help me,"
Lopez said with his eyes on the carpet.

"Why should I help you?  To put money
into your purse you did not hesitate to ruin me
and my husband, knowing that my one poor
vanity induced me to deck myself out in borrowed
plumes.  As a girl you asked for my heart and I
gave it you; I gave all the love I had for any
man.  I have never been able to feel the same
since.  Don't flatter yourself that I care the least
for you; the flower has been dead many years.
I forgave you that.  I did not get you crushed
and broken, as I could easily have done.  And
now you dare drag me once again into your net.
I sent for you to-night to make conditions; the
whole truth must be told.  You are to stay in
London, and on Friday you are to give your
evidence at the adjourned inquest."

"You are never going to have it all out?"
Lopez said blankly.

"Indeed I am.  Whether you and Frobisher
are actually guilty of crime in the eyes of the
law I don't know or care.  But you both have
a deal to answer for.  Don't you play me false."

Lopez looked up and down again swiftly.
He was thinking how he could turn this thing to
advantage and go his own course at the same time.
He did not hear the tinkle of the telephone-bell
behind him; he took no heed as Mrs. Benstein
placed the receiver to her ear.

"Yes," she said.  "I am home.  See you in
ten minutes.  Ask him to wait outside the drawing-room
door.  Oh, yes, the messenger came quite
safely.  Good night."

If Lopez heard all this it was quite in a
mechanical way.  He spoke presently, urging
the uselessness of the proceedings that Isa
Benstein suggested.  She said something in reply,
something cold and cutting, but she was taking no
further interest in the matter.  She was listening
for something, the ring of the front-door bell and
a step outside.  It came at length, and she rose.

"My mind is quite made up," she said.  "And
I am not going to give you a chance to go back
upon me.  Will you open that door, please?
I thank you.  Inspector Townsend, will you be
so good as to step in?  As I told you over the
telephone, the messenger arrived quite safely."

Lopez's hand shot swiftly behind him; then he
dropped it to his side and smiled.  He had been
beaten, but he showed no emotion or the slightest
sign of anger.

"I think you had better come quietly," he said.
"I have plenty of assistance outside.  The charge
is wilful murder over that affair at Streatham.
Shall I call a cab for you?"

Lopez nodded.  As he passed out of the house
Isa Benstein went to the telephone again, and
called up the office of the *Evening Banner*.
There was a hurried conversation, then the
communication was cut off.  It seemed to
Mrs. Benstein that she had every reason to be pleased
with her evening's work.  "It would be good to
see Frobisher's face when he knows that," she
said.  "And he will know to-night."

It was getting late now, but some of the evening
papers were running extra specials.  There had
been a big railway accident in the North, and
there was a little capital out of that.  Frobisher
heard the raucous cry of the boys as he came out
of his club.  He was restless and ill at ease; he
could not sit down and contemplate the beauty
of his orchids to-night.

"Terrible accident," a boy screamed as he
passed.  "More about the Streatham 'orror.
Arrest of Paul Lopez to-night.  Arrest of the
missing witness.  Speshul."

"Here, boy, let me have a paper," Frobisher
called out.  "Never mind the confounded change.
Give me a paper, quick."  His hand trembled as
he took the still damp sheet, his legs shook as he
made his way back to the quietude of the
conservatory.  He must see to this at once.

Yes, there it was, a few short pregnant lines to
the effect that Paul Lopez had been arrested by
Inspector Townsend a little after nine that night.
It looked cold and bald enough in print, but it
thrilled the reader to his marrow.

"The fool!" he hissed.  "The fool had no
money to get away with.  Why didn't he come to
me or send?  I'd have given him all he wanted
if it had been half my fortune."





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.. _`NEMESIS`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XXVIII.


.. class:: center medium bold

   NEMESIS.

.. vspace:: 2

Frobisher raged furiously up and down
the conservatory for a time.  Everything
seemed to have gone wrong with him all
at once.  His favourite clay pipe would not draw;
as he jammed a cleaner down the stem angrily it
came away in his hand.  The case of spare pipes
he could not find anywhere.  It crossed his
imagination suddenly that some of the more
delicate orchids in the roof were looking a little
stale.  He touched the gauge of the automatic
steam-pipe that threw off vapour at regulated
intervals and found it out of order.  He shook the
spring tap angrily as a terrier might shake a rat.

"Confound the thing," he cried.  "Everything
seems to be wrong to-night.  Here is a job for Hafid."

Hafid came in trembling at the long ring of the
electric bell.  He had not seen his master in such
a dark mood for many a day.  Why had he not
come before?  Where had the fool been?
Hafid bowed before the storm.

"I'm going out, you congenial idiot," Frobisher
muttered.  "Something has gone wrong with the
automatic steam-tap in the conservatory.  Turn
it on for a minute at eleven o'clock and again at
twelve if I am not back.  As you value your skin,
don't forget it."

Hafid bowed again, and his lips formed hoarse
words that Frobisher could just hear.

"Take it and burn it, and destroy it," he said.
"Take it and burn it, and——"

"You chattering simian," Frobisher cried.  He
sprang on Hafid and shook him till his teeth
chattered.  "You besotted ass.  Are you going to
do what I say or not?"

Hafid abased himself and promised by the
name of the Prophet.  There was a slight hiss in
the conservatory beyond that Frobisher did
not notice.  There was nothing wrong with the
steam-valve, after all; perhaps it had stuck
somewhere for a moment, but at any rate it was
working again now.  But Frobisher was too
passionately angry to see that.

"Eleven o'clock," he commanded.  "Don't
forget the time.  Now find my pipes for me.  Find
them in a minute, or I'll kick you from here to
your kennel."

Hafid was fortunate enough to discover the
cases of pipes precisely where his master had
placed them.  Then he slipped away discreetly
enough before worse befell him.  For some time
Frobisher smoked on moodily.  He looked like
being beaten all along the line, and he hated that
worse than losing his money.  If the whole truth
came out, and it could be proved that he tacitly
permitted these tragedies, no decent man would
ever speak to him again.  Also, he was a little
uneasy as to whether the law held any precedent
for murder by proxy.  Again, if Lopez was forced
to speak to save his own skin, the Cardinal Moth
would have to go.  There was torture in the
thought beyond the bitter humiliation of defeat.
Beyond doubt, Mrs. Benstein was at the back of
all this.  Frobisher wondered if she quite knew
everything.  At any rate, if he could see her he might
pick up a useful hint or two.  Women always talk
if properly encouraged, and a triumphant woman
could never quite keep her triumph to herself.

"I'll go to-night," Frobisher muttered as he laid
aside his pipe.  "I dare say I can invent some
ingenious excuse for calling at this time of night."

He passed from the conservatory into the hall
and from thence to the drawing-room.  Lady
Frobisher was there, and Angela standing before
the fire-place drawing on a long pair of gloves.
The big Empire clock over the mantel chimed
the three-quarters past ten.

"Where are you going at this time of the
night?" Frobisher asked.

"Lady Warrendale's," Lady Frobisher said without
looking up from her paper.  "We are waiting
for Nelly Blyson.  We shall not start before eleven."

"Then you can take me and put me down at
the corner of Belgrave Square," Frobisher said.
"I've got a little business in that direction.
Didn't I hear Arnott's voice?"

Lady Frobisher said nothing; she seemed to be
deeply engrossed in her paper.  Angela lifted
her dainty head just a little bit higher.

"He certainly called," she said, "to see me.
But he is not likely to come again."

Frobisher's teeth showed behind one of his
sudden grins.  He wanted to grip those white
arms, to leave the small marks of his fingers behind.
But there were better ways than that.

"So you mean that you have refused him?"
he asked.

"Definitely and finally," Angela replied.  "I
paid him the compliment of treating him like a
gentleman, but I might have spared myself the
trouble.  If you ask that man here again when I
am present, I shall be compelled to leave the
house and take up my quarters elsewhere."

Frobisher grinned again.  He could pretty well
picture to himself the way in which Arnott would
take his rejection.  And the man was not a
gentleman.  Frobisher's own breeding showed him that.

"Very well," he said.  "Go your own way for
the present.  Ask Parsons to give me a call when
the car comes round.  I shall be amongst my
flowers."

He strode back to the conservatory, hating
everybody in the world, himself most of all.
Hafid was crossing in the direction of the
conservatory, a big old clock in the hall was
close on the hour of eleven.

"Where are you going to, you black thief?"
Frobisher demanded.

"My master gave certain directions for eleven
o'clock," Hafid said, timidly.  "I was going to——"

"I'll do it myself.  But don't you forget twelve
o'clock if I have not returned.  Go back to
your room."

The black shadow departed, Frobisher went
on muttering.  There was time for half a pipe,
and then—then a brilliant idea came to him.  He
grinned and laughed aloud.

"I'll do it," he said.  "I'll take the Cardinal
Moth down and hide it.  The thing will dry and
shrivel for a time, and come back to all its beauty
when it feels the grateful moist warmth again.
Denvers shall not have the laugh on me.  I'll be
robbed.  It shall go out to the world that the
famous Cardinal Moth has been stolen from my
conservatory.  And I'll do it now, by Jove."

Then, with this design, Frobisher pulled up
the extending steps.  A minute later and his
body was thrust into a tangle of looped ropes
on which the Cardinal Moth hung.  It was like
untying a multitude of loose knots.  The folds
were all about Frobisher like a snake.  So intent
was he upon his work that he did not hear the
hiss of the steam-valve below.  The air was
growing suddenly warmer and moister, but
Frobisher did not seem to heed.  Then, without any
warning, something caught him by the wrists and
held him as in handcuffs.  He struggled and looked
down.  A cloud of steam was slowly ascending.

"My God!" Frobisher burst out.  "That
valve was all right, after all.  Here, Hafid, help!"

But Hafid was some way off, and nobody seemed
to notice.  Frobisher struggled, then another loop
caught him round the chest, as he fought frantically,
slipped up and pinned him round the throat.
A thousand stars danced before his eyes; he could
hear voices in the distance.  In the hour of his
peril he caught the sound of Harold Denvers'
voice and wondered what he was doing here.

There was a last despairing cry, a choke and a
snort and a long shudder of the powerful limbs.
The thousand stars went out as if suddenly swept
off the face of the heavens by a passing cloud;
it was dark with patches of red in it, and Frobisher
grew still after a long shuddering sigh.  Then he
hung for the space of a few minutes—ten, at the
outside—before the strain relaxed and he fell
crashing to the floor.

There was light laughter in the hall, the fresh
sound of a young girl's voice, the firm tones of
Harold Denvers demanding to see Sir Clement
Frobisher on urgent business.  Hafid came
forward like a shadow.

"My master is going out," he said.  "The car
is waiting."

"Tell him I must see him at once," Harold
said curtly.  "Lady Frobisher, you had better
go without your husband, as our business is
likely to take some time."

"I must hear my lord and master say so,"
Lady Frobisher replied.  "What is that?"

A long wailing cry from the conservatory, a
yell of horror in Hafid's voice.  A strange light
leapt into Harold's eyes as he dashed forward.
He had guessed by instinct what had happened.
Hafid was bending over the dead form of his
master muttering to himself.

"Take it and burn it, and destroy it," he wailed.
"Ah, if they had taken and burnt, and——"

"Hush," Harold commanded sternly with a
hand over Hafid's mouth.  "I see that you know
quite as well as myself what has happened.  Stay
here a moment and be silent."

Harold hastened back to the hall just in time
to intercept Lady Frobisher and Angela.  From
the expression of his face they knew that some
tragedy had happened.

"It is my husband," Lady Frobisher said,
quietly.  "He is dead.  Do not be afraid to speak
the truth."

"I—I am afraid so," Harold stammered,
"He—he has fallen from the roof of the
conservatory.  He must have died on the spot.  Lady
Frobisher, I implore you to go back to your room.
Angela, will you go along!  If you will leave it to
me, I will do everything that is necessary."

Lady Frobisher went away quite calmly.
The sudden shock had left her white and shaking,
but after all she had nothing but contempt and
loathing for the man who had fascinated her into
matrimony.  Harold drew all the servants away
with the exception of Hafid, and hurried to the
telephone.  He gave a minute, and a voice replied.

"Is that you, Sir James?" he asked.  "I am
very glad to hear it.  I am Harold Denvers,
speaking to you from the residence of Sir Clement
Frobisher.  He is dead.  I found him dead in the
conservatory a few minutes ago.  What?  Oh,
yes, he died in precisely the same manner as poor
Manfred.  Will you come at once, please?  Thank
you very much.  I am going to ring up Inspector
Townsend now."

Inspector Townsend was at Scotland Yard,
and would be there immediately.  Harold turned to
Hafid, and led him back to the conservatory again.

"How did it happen?" he asked, sternly.
"Tell me the truth."

"All I know," Hafid muttered.  "My master
thought the steam-valve was wrong.  I was to
turn on the tap at eleven o'clock, but my master
said that he would do it himself.  He must have
been up with the Moth when the valve worked.
The rest you know, sir.  The rest I could not tell
you.  The tap was not out of order, after all, and
my master is dead."

"It was a fitting end for such a scoundrel,"
Harold said, sternly.

He glanced up to where the Cardinal Moth still
danced and nodded.  Some of the long sprays
nearly reached the ground.  The clinging spirals were
untwisted here and there.  And Harold understood.

"He was removing the Moth," he told himself.
"He was going to take it away and hide it,
possibly to pretend that he also had been the
victim of a robbery.  He knew that I should claim
it soon.  Knave and trickster to the last!  What
a sensation this will make."

Sir James Brownsmith came presently, followed
by Townsend.  There was nothing to be said,
nothing to be done beyond certifying that Sir
Clement was dead, and that he had perished in
the same mysterious manner as Manfred and the
still unrecognised victim at Streatham.

"It's a mystery to me, and yet not a mystery,"
Townsend said.  "I've pretty well worked it
out.  But how did Sir Clement manage to get
caught like that?"

"An accident," Harold exclaimed.  "He
thought that the steam-pipe was not in working
order, and he was mistaken.  But all England
will have the explanation of this amazing mystery
to-morrow.  We will have the inquest here, and I
shall be in a position to show the jury exactly what
has happened.  But, knowing what Frobisher knew,
he was morally guilty of the death of Mr. Manfred."

There was no more to be said and nothing to
be done beyond laying the body decently out,
and locking the door of the conservatory, which
Townsend proceeded to do.  As Harold was
going out Angela stopped him.

"Was it murder again?" she asked.

"It has not been murder at all, dearest,"
Harold said.  "To-morrow you will know
everything.  Before long I shall hope to take you
from this dreadful house altogether."

Angela murmured something.  Her eyes were
steady, but her face was very white.

"I shall be ready, Harold," she whispered.
"Only not yet, not till my aunt....  And
indeed it is a merciful release for her.  Only I
know what she has suffered.  Good night."

She touched her lips to Harold's and was gone.





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.. _`THE TIGHTENED CORD`:

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   CHAPTER XXIX.


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   THE TIGHTENED CORD.

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London had seldom had a more thrilling
hour over the morning paper.  The
sensational section of the press had lost
nothing in the making of what was called the
orchid mystery; some of them had even obtained
more than an inkling of the true history of the
Cardinal Moth, and many were the ingenious
theories propounded as to the mysterious deaths
at Streatham and in Frobisher's conservatory.

And here was another victim in the person of
Sir Clement himself.  As the thousands of business
men poured into London by trains, 'buses and
trams, nothing else was talked about.  It became
known presently that there would be an inquest
at ten o'clock, and some time before the hour
traffic opposite Frobisher's house was practically
stopped.  But people who had gathered there
hoping to get in were disappointed.  Doubtless
the inquest would be adjourned to some more
suitable place, but the public were rigidly excluded
from a private house.

Nevertheless the conservatory was pretty well
full at the time the inquest commenced.  The
pressmen were quite a large body in themselves,
to say nothing of the jury and the police and a
sprinkling of doctors.  Both Sir James Brownsmith
and Harold Denvers had arrived early.

Angela came down to meet Denvers, looking
white and subdued by contrast with her black dress.

"Lady Frobisher is well, I hope?" he asked.

"My aunt is satisfactory," Angela replied.  "She
slept fairly well, and she is getting over the shock.
Of course it is absurd to say that she is overwhelmed
with sorrow; it would be mere hypocrisy to say
so.  Nobody knows what a life she has had."

"Why did she marry him?" Harold asked.

"Why, indeed?  She was not happy at home,
and Sir Clement had an extraordinary fascination
when he cared to exercise it.  It was a miserable
business altogether.  Harold, is there ever going
to be a solution of this terrible mystery?  It gets
on my nerves."

"The whole thing is going to be solved within
the next hour," Harold replied.  "There is nothing
very terrible to hear, so that you can be present
if you choose.  We shan't want Lady Frobisher."

In the big conservatory the proceedings had
already commenced.  The Coroner had addressed
the rather frightened-looking jury, and then had
waited for Inspector Townsend to call the
witnesses.  Hafid dragged himself into the box
and was sworn on a Koran.  He had very little to
say except that he had heard a cry and found the
body of his unfortunate master as he had found
the body of Mr. Manfred.  Beyond that he knew
nothing.  For the way he looked around him he
might have been the criminal himself.

"Take it and burn it, and destroy it," he said.
"Take it and burn it, and destroy it."

"And what do you mean by that remark?"
the Coroner asked sharply.

"We can explain that presently, sir," Sir James
Brownsmith said, suddenly breaking off the
whispered conversation with Townsend.  "The poor
fellow is half beside himself with terror.  I know I
am quite irregular, sir, but this is an extraordinary
case.  If I may make a suggestion——"

"Would it not be better to call the next witness?"
the Coroner asked.  "Inspector Townsend tells me
he has a full solution of this strange affair."

There was a visible flutter among the pressmen
present.  Without further ado Harold Denvers was
called.  From his place he could see Angela's
black figure in the doorway.  The same barrister
who had represented the Crown at the inquiry into
the Streatham affair faced Harold with a smile.  It
was quite evident that he knew the whole history.

"You were present here last night when Sir
Clement's body was found?" he asked.

"Yes, sir.  I had called to see Sir Clement on
important business.  I called here to desire the return
of the Crimson Moth you see close above you."

All eyes were turned upwards to where the
scarlet crowd of blossoms hovered.  The stranded
ropes sagged and bagged now so that some of the
blooms were almost in reach.  A little later there
was a hiss of steam, and the cords tightened to
the moisture as if some human hand had raised the
beautiful garlands.  As to the loveliness of the
Cardinal Moth there was only one opinion.

"So that is the strange bloom," Counsel said.  "Do
orchids of that class require constant moisture?"

"Some of them do," Harold explained.  "You
see the Cardinal Moth came originally from a hot
swamp, probably in Borneo or on the West Coast
of Africa.  You see that is on a very coarsely-woven
Manilla rope."

"Are we not wandering from the point?" the
Coroner suggested.

"On the contrary, sir, we are sticking very
closely to it," the barrister retorted.  "Now tell
me, is not this same Cardinal Moth supposed to
be endowed with magic powers?"

"That is the idea.  Perhaps I had better say
once more what I have already stated elsewhere.
For generations the Cardinal Moth guarded or was
supposed to guard the inner temple of Ghan in
Koordstan.  The form and beauty of the Moth
travelled until it was known to most collectors.
Two or three people made up their minds to steal
it; it matters little who they were.  They did
steal it and divided it into three portions.  Two of
these portions were lost, and the third came into
my hands.  The plant above your head is the one
that was stolen from the greenhouse at Streatham,
where I put it for safe custody."

"Have you any idea who stole it?"

"Yes, it was taken away by Paul Lopez after
the death of Count Lefroy's representative, who
had nearly stolen a march on Lopez."

"But Lopez never murdered that man."

"You think somebody else did?"

"Indeed, I don't.  That man was not murdered at
all, neither was Manfred, or Sir Clement Frobisher."

A murmur of astonishment followed this speech.
It seemed hard to believe, but Harold spoke
quietly, though in tones absolutely emphatic.

"Perhaps I had better explain," he went on.
"I told you that the Moth used to guard the inner
temple at Ghan.  It was the punishment of high
political criminals that they should go into the
inner temple and pluck from the trail a single
blossom.  They went in, but they never came out
alive.  When the gates were thrown back they
lay dead with strange marks about their throats
or their breast bones broken.  It was a terrible
and awesome punishment, and one that gave the
priests immense power.  Nobody knew how death
came, nobody was meant to know, but we shall
all in the room know in a few minutes.  It was
the work of the Moth."

Again the murmur of astonishment arose.
Harold signed to the policemen to open the window;
As a dry air came in the long strands of the Manilla
rope stretched as the moisture warmed out of it,
a climber of the Moth dangled over the head of an
inspector who pushed it aside, as if it had been
poison.  Harold produced something that looked
like an oblong sack filled with firewood.  He
proceeded to tangle it in the loops and folds of the rope.

"We will suppose that is a man," he said, "a
man who has climbed up to the roof to steal the
Moth which is all tangled up.  He puts his arm
through one loop and his head through another,
thinking no evil, when suddenly the steam-hose
is turned on.  Now watch."

Harold crossed the room and touched the
steam-tap.  As the moisture struck the very coarse
Manilla rope it suddenly tightened with the
moisture till it hummed again.  The same effect
was to be seen with a clothes-line after a shower
of rain.  But the almost diaphanous character of
the rope and the heavy discharge of moisture
brought the strands up so tight that they seemed
to hum in the air.

"There!" Harold cried, "there is the mystery—there
is the secret of the priests.  The man
climbs until he is in a maze of loose rope; the
steam is discharged and he is strangled—the life
pressed out of him by those cruel cords; one cry
and all is over.  Listen."

As the rope drew up the wood within the sack
was heard to crack as if a vice had a grip on it.
Gradually at the same time the whole mass lifted
higher and higher.  Presently as the air dried the
loops again slackened and the sack came to the
ground.  Nobody said anything for a long time.
But practically the proceedings were over; there
was very little to say or do.

The gentlemen of the pencil began to file out.
After all, the extraordinary tragedy that had
thrilled London as it had not been thrilled since
the days of Jack the Ripper had resolved itself into
a mere accident.  One or two of the more fanciful
element stayed, for they could see the making of
a fine story here.  After all, there was never a
murder or a set of murders planned like this before.

"The explanation is quite satisfactory," the
Coroner said.  "If you propose to go any further—"

Inspector Townsend shook his head.  There was
no occasion to rake up any mud.  Sir Clement was
dead, and the other two men had lost their lives
in attempted robbery.  But that the trap had been
deliberately laid for Manfred, and that Sir Clement
was morally guilty of murder, the Inspector did
not doubt.  Then the proceedings collapsed almost
before they had begun, and the usual prosaic
verdict was returned.

"I'm glad it was so simple," Angela said when
everybody had gone.  "But how Sir Clement——"

"He was going to take the Moth away,"
Harold hastened to explain, "so that I should not
recover possession of it.  He thought the steam-cock
was out of order, and it wasn't.  That is
the bald truth.  That plant belongs to me, and I
have no doubt that Lady Frobisher will let me
take it away.  Ask her on the first favourable
opportunity.  It's no time to talk of business, but
the sooner I can hand that accursed thing over to
the Shan, the sooner I shall have those concessions.
And now, is there anything I can do for you,
sweetheart?"

It was late before Harold saw the Shan.  He
had been reading the morning's proceedings in the
early edition of some evening paper.  He welcomed
Harold effusively.

"Glad to see you," he said.  "Upon my word,
you are the only honest and straightforward one
of the lot.  By the way, if you don't want the
Moth——"

"I came here to offer it you," Harold said, "but
after the way the trick has been exposed——"

"Bless you, that will not make any difference
in Koordstan.  Nobody reads papers there, and
the priests will be pretty sure to keep their mouths
shut.  Besides, I shall have them on my side now
that I know the whole game.  Now sit down and
we'll settle the business of those concessions."

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It was a month later, and the season was
drawing to an end.  Lady Frobisher was back in
town for a few days, to make arrangements for
her trip abroad, and Angela had come along.
Harold had been dining there.  He was prosperous
now, and pretty certain to become a rich man.

"When is Lady Frobisher going?" he asked.

"Not till August," Angela replied.  "That is
nearly two months.  And in the meantime——"

"In the meantime we are going to be married
and have a long honeymoon," Harold said.  "Then
I have to go out to Koordstan for a spell, and
Lady Frobisher can come along.  It is a lovely
country, and it will be a complete change for her.
What do you say to that, Angela?"

Angela smiled and did not draw herself away
as Harold kissed her.  She appreciated his kindness
and thought for others.

"Always unselfish," she murmured.  "Harold,
it shall be as you say."

Harold stooped and kissed Angela again, and
then there was silence between them, the blissful
silence of a perfect understanding.

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   SUCCESSFUL NOVELS

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   BY

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FRED M. WHITE

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PUBLISHED BY

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WARD, LOCK & CO., LTD.

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"Mr. White is a master of the breathless
pace which whirls a reader along whether he
will or not."—*Yorkshire Observer*.

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THE FIVE KNOTS
THE BRAND OF SILENCE
THE GOLDEN ROSE
THE FOUR FINGERS
THE TURN OF THE TIDE
THE WINGS OF VICTORY
THE SLAVE OF SILENCE
A CRIME ON CANVAS
NETTA
A QUEEN OF THE STAGE
THE RIDDLE OF THE RAIL
MYSTERY OF THE RAVENSPURS
THE CARDINAL MOTH
THE KING DIAMOND

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