The Cardinal Moth

by Fred M. White

Frobisher raged furiously up and down the conservatory for a time. Everything seemed to have gone wrong with him all at once. His favourite clay pipe would not draw; as he jammed a cleaner down the stem angrily it came away in his hand. The case of spare pipes he could not find anywhere. It crossed his imagination suddenly that some of the more delicate orchids in the roof were looking a little stale. He touched the gauge of the automatic steam-pipe that threw off vapour at regulated intervals and found it out of order. He shook the spring tap angrily as a terrier might shake a rat.

"Confound the thing," he cried. "Everything seems to be wrong to-night. Here is a job for Hafid."

Hafid came in trembling at the long ring of the electric bell. He had not seen his master in such a dark mood for many a day. Why had he not come before? Where had the fool been? Hafid bowed before the storm.

"I'm going out, you congenial idiot," Frobisher muttered. "Something has gone wrong with the automatic steam-tap in the conservatory. Turn it on for a minute at eleven o'clock and again at twelve if I am not back. As you value your skin, don't forget it."

Hafid bowed again, and his lips formed hoarse words that Frobisher could just hear.

"Take it and burn it, and destroy it," he said. "Take it and burn it, and——"

"You chattering simian," Frobisher cried. He sprang on Hafid and shook him till his teeth chattered. "You besotted ass. Are you going to do what I say or not?"

Hafid abased himself and promised by the name of the Prophet. There was a slight hiss in the conservatory beyond that Frobisher did not notice. There was nothing wrong with the steam-valve, after all; perhaps it had stuck somewhere for a moment, but at any rate it was working again now. But Frobisher was too passionately angry to see that.

"Eleven o'clock," he commanded. "Don't forget the time. Now find my pipes for me. Find them in a minute, or I'll kick you from here to your kennel."

Hafid was fortunate enough to discover the cases of pipes precisely where his master had placed them. Then he slipped away discreetly enough before worse befell him. For some time Frobisher smoked on moodily. He looked like being beaten all along the line, and he hated that worse than losing his money. If the whole truth came out, and it could be proved that he tacitly permitted these tragedies, no decent man would ever speak to him again. Also, he was a little uneasy as to whether the law held any precedent for murder by proxy. Again, if Lopez was forced to speak to save his own skin, the Cardinal Moth would have to go. There was torture in the thought beyond the bitter humiliation of defeat. Beyond doubt, Mrs. Benstein was at the back of all this. Frobisher wondered if she quite knew everything. At any rate, if he could see her he might pick up a useful hint or two. Women always talk if properly encouraged, and a triumphant woman could never quite keep her triumph to herself.