"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. "I’ll go to-night," Frobisher muttered as he laid aside his pipe. "I dare say I can invent some ingenious excuse for calling at this time of night." He passed from the conservatory into the hall and from thence to the drawing-room. Lady Frobisher was there, and Angela standing before the fire-place drawing on a long pair of gloves. The big Empire clock over the mantel chimed the three-quarters past ten. "Where are you going at this time of the night?" Frobisher asked. "Lady Warrendale’s," Lady Frobisher said without looking up from her paper. "We are waiting for Nelly Blyson. We shall not start before eleven." "Then you can take me and put me down at the corner of Belgrave Square," Frobisher said. "I’ve got a little business in that direction. Didn’t I hear Arnott’s voice?"