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.

                             *CHAPTER XXI.*

                      *DENVERS LEARNS SOMETHING.*

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.

                            *CHAPTER XXII.*

                         *STRANDS OF THE ROPE.*

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."

                            *CHAPTER XXIII.*

                       *A LUNCH AT THE BELGRAVE.*

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."

                            *CHAPTER XXIV.*

                            *A WOMAN’S WAY.*

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."

                             *CHAPTER XXV.*

                         *A STRIKING LIKENESS.*

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.

                            *CHAPTER XXVI.*

                      *A BAD QUARTER OF AN HOUR.*

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."

                            *CHAPTER XXVII.*

                      *MRS. BENSTEIN INTERVENES.*

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."

                           *CHAPTER XXVIII.*

                               *NEMESIS.*

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.

                            *CHAPTER XXIX.*

                         *THE TIGHTENED CORD.*

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."

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.

           *      *      *      *      *      *      *      *

                          *SUCCESSFUL NOVELS*

                                   BY

                            *FRED M. WHITE*

                              PUBLISHED BY

                         WARD, LOCK & CO., LTD.

"Mr. White is a master of the breathless pace which whirls a reader
along whether he will or not."—_Yorkshire Observer_.

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