Frobisher pounced upon the wailing speaker and clutched him by the throat. As the first hoarse words came from Hafid the rest of the party had rushed headlong into the orchid-house. Frobisher shook his servant like a reed is shaken by a storm. "Silence, you fool!" he whispered. "You didn’t kill the man, and I didn’t kill the man. If he is dead he has not been murdered. And it is no fault of yours." "Allah knows better," Hafid muttered, sulkily. "You didn’t kill him, and I didn’t kill him, but he is dead, and Allah will punish the guilty. Take it and burn it, and——" "Idiot! Son of a pig, be silent. And mind, you are to know nothing. You went to get the hot water from the orchid-house and saw Mr. Manfred lying there. As soon as you did so you rushed in to tell us. Now come along." The limp body of Manfred had been partly raised, and his head rested on Sir James Brownsmith’s knee. The others stood waiting for the verdict. "The fellow is dead," the great doctor said. "Murdered, I should say, undoubtedly. He has been strangled by a coarse cloth twisted about his throat—precisely the same way as that poor fellow was murdered at Streatham the night before last." A solemn silence fell upon the group. Hafid stood behind, his lips moving in silent speech: "Take it and burn it, and destroy it. Take it and burn it, and destroy it, for there is blood upon it now and ever." The drama was none the less moving because of its decorous silence. The great surgeon knelt on the white marble floor of the orchid-house with Manfred’s head on his knee. Though Sir James Brownsmith’s hand was quite steady, his face was white as his own hair, or the face of the dead man staring dumbly up to the tangle of ropes and blossoms overhead. There the Cardinal Moth was dancing and quivering as if exulting over the crime. A long trail of it had broken away, and one tiny cloud of blossom danced near the surgeon’s ear, as if trying to tell him the tragedy and its story. "A ghastly business," the judge murmured. "How did the murderer get in here?" "How did he get out?" Frobisher suggested. "There is no exit from here at all. All the servants have been in bed long ago, and the front door is generally secured, at least the latch is always down." "But what brought poor Manfred in here?" Saltaur asked. "I understood from Hafid that he was lying down in the drawing-room. Oh, Hafid! Wake up, man!" "Take it and burn it, and destroy it," Hafid said mechanically. Frobisher shook him savagely, shook the dreamy horror off him like a garment. He was sorry, he said, but he could tell the excellent company nothing. A quarter of an hour before and Mr. Manfred had appeared to be asleep on the drawing-room sofa. Hafid had asked him if he needed anything, and he had made no reply. "Very strange," Sir James murmured, still diagnosing the cruel stranded pattern about the dead man’s throat. "Perhaps Count Lefroy—where is the Count?"