Then he became conscious that Mrs. Benstein was standing before him. She had been in court, but he had not seen her. He muttered some commonplaces now, he tottered across the street and into a bar which was empty. The smart girl behind looked at him curiously as he ordered a large brandy-and-soda. The soda he almost discarded, he poured the strong spirit down his throat, and a little life crept into his quivering lips. Meanwhile Mrs. Benstein stood by the door of her car. She appeared to be waiting for somebody. From the bar window the now resuscitated Frobisher watched and wondered. He saw Townsend come out of court; he saw Mrs. Benstein stop him as he touched his cap. "I’d give a trifle to hear what they are saying," Frobisher muttered. "I wish I had never seen that confounded woman. I am growing senile. Fancy being beaten by a woman!" Mrs. Benstein had very little to say to Townsend, but that little was to the point. "If you can lay hands on Lopez, what shall you do?" she asked. "Arrest him on suspicion of the Streatham murder," Townsend said promptly. "Which he never committed. Still, it is the proper thing to do. Now tell me where I can give you a call upon the telephone about ten o’clock to-night." *CHAPTER XXVII.* *MRS. BENSTEIN INTERVENES.* Mrs. Benstein was dining alone and early, for Benstein had an important engagement later, and usually he made a point of being in bed betimes. He had had a good day, which was no uncommon thing for him, and he was loquacious and talkative as usual. From the head of the table Mrs. Benstein smiled and nodded, but, as a matter of fact, she had not the least idea what her husband was talking about. Not until the coffee was on the table and the cigarettes going round did she speak. She always liked her coffee in that perfect old Tudor dining-room—the dark oak and the silver and the shaded lights all made so restful a picture. "Now I want to give you half an hour," she said. "You will be in plenty of time to see Lord Rayfield afterwards. Did you read the account of the Streatham inquest in the _Evening Standard_ as I asked you?" "Read every word of it whilst I was dressing," Benstein said. Mrs. Benstein smiled. From the way her husband was dressed, the paper in question had monopolized most of his attention. At any rate, he seemed to have grasped the case. "What did you think of it?" she asked. "Well, it’s a queer business," Benstein said, thoughtfully. "Seems to me to be a lot of fuss to make about a paltry flower that any accident might destroy. Never could understand Frobisher wasting his money over that sort of trash."