Frobisher passed a handkerchief over his shining head slowly, with a feeling that he was going through the ordeal of a Turkish bath. It was a long time before he was quite sure that the vendor of the Cardinal Moth was not in court. The little questioner smiled as Frobisher shook his head. Evidently he had a powerful reserve behind him. He switched off on to another track presently.
"You know all about the history of the Cardinal Moth?" he asked.
"Every collector does," Frobisher replied. "It has been known for centuries. Times out of number adventurers have tried to obtain the whole plant, or, at any rate, a small portion of it, but without success. Generally the attempt has ended in disaster to the adventurers."
"You mean that usually they have been killed?"
"Precisely. They have died of strangulation as—as Mr. Manfred did."
"Quite so. You don't suggest that there is anything Satanic or diabolical about the Moth? No cruel force from an unseen world, or anything of that kind?"
"Certainly not," Frobisher said with the suspicion of a sneer. "Although such a thing is firmly believed in Koordstan and elsewhere."
"Then there is some trick, some danger. Now, Sir Clement, listen to me carefully. You knew all about this strange fatality that clings to the Cardinal Moth, you know that Mr. Manfred met his death by that terrible way, and that tragedy at Streatham was more or less a repetition of the thing that happened under your roof. You can't deny that."
"Have I made any attempt to do so?" Frobisher retorted.
"I didn't suggest anything of the kind," Counsel snapped. "But I do say that you suppressed, deliberately suppressed, what you knew to be facts of the deepest import. Why did you not tell all this to the police? Why didn't you mention it to Sir James Brownsmith and other friends?"