Front matter (continued 2)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER VIII.

THE WEAKER VESSEL.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"The Shan is hard up?" Lopez suggested.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER IX.

A WORD TO THE WISE.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lopez smiled as he lay back in his chair.

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

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

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

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

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

"The diamonds are absolutely superb," Cara said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Is he a rich man?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER X.

A WORD TO THE WISE.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lopez bent across the table and lowered his voice confidentially.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER XI.

BORROWED PLUMES.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A wonderful smile filled the eyes of the listener.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER XII.

A MODEL HUSBAND.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lopez waved the accusation aside with his Apostle spoon.

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

"So I understand," Isa Benstein said carelessly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER XIII.

THE QUEEN OF THE RUBIES.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER XIV.

"UNEASY LIES THE HEAD——"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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