It was something in the nature of extracting a tooth, but Frobisher mounted the steps and tore down the two sprays asked for. Isa Benstein whipped them under the folds of her cloak. There was a subtle fragrance about her that a younger man than Frobisher would have found heady. "I must fly to the dressing-room," she said. "And then to pay my respects to my hostess. Do you think that she is likely to recognise me?" Frobisher thought not. He lingered over his cigarette, making not the slightest attempt to play the host, though the dance was in full swing now, and the house echoed to the thud of feet in motion. At the same time, Frobisher was looking forward to plenty of amusement presently, before supper, when everybody unmasked. He grew a little tired of his own company presently and strolled into the ballroom. There the electrics were festooned and garlanded with ropes of roses, the plaintive band could not be seen behind a jungle of feathery ferns, a bewildering kaleidoscope of colour looped and twisted and threaded in a perfect harmony. A few of the younger and consequently more _blasé_ men lined the walls. A cavalier of sorts with a long, thin scar on the side of his lean head was watching the proceedings. Frobisher touched him on the arm. "Not dancing, Lefroy?" he said. "Are you past all those fleeting joys?" "It’s an old wound in my thigh," Lefroy explained. He was just a little chagrined to discover that his host had so easily detected him. Frobisher’s superior cleverness always angered him. "It is my amusement to spot the various women, and I have located most of them. But there is one! Ciel!" "One that even meets with your critical approval! Good. She must be a pearl among women. Point her out to me and let us see if our tastes agree." Lefroy’s eyes glittered behind their mask as they swept over the reeling crowd. A moment or two later and he just touched Frobisher on the arm. "Here she comes," he whispered. "On the arm of General Marriott. No mistaking his limp, and his white hair like a file of soldiers on parade. What a costume and what a cost! That scarlet band across her brow over the mask is wonderfully effective. That woman is an artist, Frobisher. And she has the most perfect figure in Europe. Who is she?" Frobisher made no reply; he was studying Isa Benstein’s costume—lustrous black from head to foot, with white seams fairly covered with rubies. There were rubies all over her corsage, bands of them up her arm, a serpent necklace round the milky way of her throat. The whole thing was daring, bizarre, and yet artistic to a point. The scarlet band across the brows struck a strong and vivid note. The rubies were not so bright as the woman’s eyes. As she came nearer the tangle of blossom across her bosom showed up clearly. Lefroy gasped. "A mystery in a mystery," he said. "She is wearing the Cardinal Moth. Who is she?"