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