The Cardinal Moth

by Fred M. White

  *CHAPTER XXII.*

  *STRANDS OF THE ROPE.*

  Denvers returned to the ballroom with a feeling that he would be glad toget away. The whole thing sickened him, the light laughter and frivolouschatter jarred upon his nerves. He had been very near to a dreadfultragedy; he had learnt a hideous truth, and he had not got himself inhand yet. He wanted to know the whole truth without delay. Angelaawaited him anxiously.

  "My aunt tells me that Mrs. Benstein is gone," she said. "She had anaccident 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 Ishall be more than grateful if you will smuggle me a glass of champagneinto the little alcove where we first met to-night. There I can tellyou something."

  But it was not very much that Harold had to tell. The terriblediscovery he had made must be kept to himself as far as Angela wasconcerned. Mrs. Benstein would like to see Angela in the morning. Shehad a new design for a costume that might suit the girl, so that she wasto be sure and wear the blue orchids that Angela had at present in herhair.

  "It sounds very mysterious," Angela smiled.

  "Well, it does," Harold admitted. "But I'm sure Mrs. Benstein has goodreasons for the request. Taking her all in all, she is the mostbrilliantly intellectual woman I have ever met, and if I mistake not shecan supply the missing piece of the puzzle. Now I really must saygood-night, dear old girl, and drag my master home. I have much to dobefore 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 itoccurred to me that she had passed it on to you, but she would arguethat your tell-tale face would give you away. I expect she acted as thehero of Poe's 'Purloined Letter' did--place the gem in a place so simpleand 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 hadwon a considerable sum of money, and was in the best of spirits. As twoof the players quitted the table, Harold drew his pseudo-master aside.

  "You are not going to play again," he said, curtly, "you are cominghome. If you refuse to come home I shall take no further interest inyour affairs. Do you hear?"

  The Shan nodded sulkily. Like the spoilt child that he was, he had noheed for the morrow. But Denvers' stern manner was not without itseffect. He wanted a glass or two of champagne first, but Denvers fairlydragged him into the street. There was no car waiting, so perforce theyhad to walk.

  "You're carrying it off with a high hand," the Shan growled. "Anybodywould think you had the Blue Stone safe in your pocket. Have you doneanything?"

  "I have done a great deal; on the whole, it has been a most excitingevening. 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 seeyour own back to-morrow. No drink, mind; you are to go to bed quitesober."

  "Confound you!" the Shan flashed out, passionately. "Do you know who Iam? A servant like yourself----"

  "I am no servant of yours," Harold replied. "And I know quite well whoyou are. You are a dissolute, drunken fool, who is doing his best tobring 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 Stoneand the Moth. You promised to tell me to-night where the Moth hadvanished to."

  "The Moth is hanging up in Sir Clement Frobisher's conservatory," HaroldDenvers said. "Frobisher would have shown it to you to-night only he hada more interesting game to play. It is the very plant that was stolenfrom Streatham. You can imagine the price Frobisher would ask for itsrestoration. You would grant the price, and then he would have foundsome way to repudiate all the wicked story of that infernal flower."

  "Of course I do, my dear chap," said the Shan, now thoroughly restoredas to his temper. "It has been whispered fearsomely round firesides inKoordstan for a thousand years. The Cardinal Moth guarded the roof ofthe Temple of Ghan. All the great political criminals were sentenced toclimb to the roof and pick a flower from the Moth. The door was closedand the temple seen to be empty. When the priests outside had finishedtheir prayer the door was open and the criminal lay on the floor deadwith the marks of great hairy hands about him. Sometimes it was theneck that was broken, sometimes the chest was all crushed in as if agreat giant had done it, but it was always the same. Ay, they dreadedthat 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 pretendto something occult, but I have been in the West too long to believethat. 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 tothe point, Frobisher knows. It was the way that Manfred died, also thatpoor fellow at Streatham. And, but for a miracle, Mrs. Benstein, withyour sacred jewel presumedly in her possession, would have been afurther victim. Frobisher deliberately planned the last thing to closethe mouth of a woman."

  The Shan's eyes fairly rippled with curiosity, but Harold shook hishead.

  "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 ofmischief in the morning. Meanwhile, I am going to restore myself to aChristian garb and call up Sir James Brownsmith, late as it is. Betweenus 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. Everythingseemed to promise fair for the morrow. It was past two, and Haroldhurried along in the direction of Harley Street, and he was glad to seea gleam over the fanlight of the surgeon's front door. He was pullingthe bell for the second time when Sir James Brownsmith appeared.

  "What do you want?" he asked, testily. "A consulting physician likemyself----"

  "How is Mrs. Benstein?" Harold asked coolly. The question was quiteeffective. "When I saw you a little time ago, Sir James, I passed asone of the Shan's suite. Clothed and in my right mind, I am Mr. HaroldDenvers, at your service. I have the solution of the Manfred mystery inmy pocket."

  "And altogether I have no doubt that you are a most remarkable youngman," Sir James said. "Pray come in. I ought to be in bed, but I havenot the faintest inclination for sleep. Come in."

  Brilliant lights gleamed in Brownsmith's cosy study, where books andscientific instruments made up the bulk of the furniture. The famoussurgeon proffered cigarettes what time he looked keenly into the face ofhis 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 knownothing, that the matter should be kept a profound secret, in fact."

  "It must be," Harold exclaimed. "Not a word of it must leak out. Youmade a certain examination of the wound. What did you find? Was thereany blood?"

  "I'm not quite sure. When I came to wash the arm there was no bloodthere. But there were the fibres of the rope, and they seemed to beimpregnated with blood the same as those from the throat of Manfred, andthe 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 carefulanalysis yet. No blood on the victim, but blood on the strands of therope. 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 bloomof the Cardinal Moth. He crushed it between his fingers, andimmediately they were covered with a rosy sticky bright red substanceexactly like blood. No paint or pigment of any kind could havecounterfeited the original so well.

  "Well, that's interesting," Sir James cried. "I see your meaning. Whenthe victim was strangled one or two of those amazing blooms must havebeen twisted round the rope."

  "In other words, the rope that did the mischief was the rope that heldup the Cardinal Moth," Harold said. "It was the same at Streatham; itwas 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 unusualexcitement.

  "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 Mothis at the bottom of the whole thing. I must tell you a little of itshistory. The Cardinal Moth is unique amongst flowers; for centuries itguarded, or was supposed to guard, the Temple of Ghan. It had magicalpowers: it was used for the destruction of political prisoners. Theywere 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 willtell you.

  "The fame of the orchid got whispered about, and many were the tries toget it. At last a party of three men managed it; they divided theorchid in three parts and fled. Frobisher was with one part, andnarrowly got off with his life at Stamboul. Lefroy got away withanother part, but he lost it and almost his life as well in a fire atTurin, a fire that was no accident. The third man vanished, but hisorchid remained intact till I came across it and brought it toStreatham, when it was stolen. My idea was to give it back to the Shanof 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 intolater. 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 terriblepower in the hands of the priests of Ghan, but I am also going to provethat the power is exercised in quite a mechanical way. To-night Imanaged to bring away a very small piece of the rope that sustains theCardinal Moth. You see, it is exceedingly dry and hard, and yet undercertain conditions it thickens up like a cheap sponge. We will tie thisend to this leg of the table and that end to the other leg, leaving itto 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 wasabout 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 lighta fire," Harold said. "It is absolutely necessary that we should boil akettle."

  "No occasion to do that," Sir James said. "You shall have your kettle infive 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 minutesa long trail of steam issued from the spout. By reason of the long flexHarold could carry the kettle from place to place without cutting offthe connection, so that the water continued all the time to boil andfizzle.

  "Now watch this," he said. "I place this jet of steam under the ropehere, and there you are! The effect is practically instantaneous. Seewhat a simple thing it is." Sir James jumped back, horror andenlightenment in his eyes. His voice shook as he spoke.

  "Infernal! Diabolical!" he cried hoarsely. "And you mean to say thatFrobisher knew this! Damnable scoundrel; he is not fit to live, stillless to die."