Brood of the Witch-Queen by Sax Rohmer (the top 100 crime novels of all time .TXT) 📕

is most fascinating. To look at one of those shapeless bulbs, and to speculate upon what kind of bloom it will produce, is almost as thrilling as reading a sensational novel! He has one growing now⁠—it will bloom some time this week⁠—about which he is frantically excited.”

“Where did he get it?” asked Cairn without interest.

“He bought it from a man who had almost certainly stolen it! There were six bulbs in the parcel; only two have lived and one of these is much more advanced than the other; it is so high⁠—”

She held out her hand, indicating a height of some three feet from the ground.

“It has not flowered yet?”

“No. But the buds⁠—huge, smooth, egg-shaped things⁠—seem on the point of bursting at any moment. We call it the ‘Mystery,’ and it is my special care. Mr. Saunderson has shown me how to attend to its simple needs, and if it proves to be a new species⁠—which is almost certain⁠—he is going to exhibit it, and name it after me! Shall you be proud of having an orchid named after⁠—”

“After my wife?” Cairn concluded, seizing her hands. “I could never be more proud of you than I am already.⁠ ⁠…”

XXIII The Face in the Orchid-House

Dr. Cairn walked to the window, with its old-fashioned leaded panes. A lamp stood by the bedside, and he had tilted the shade so that it shone upon the pale face of the patient⁠—Myra Duquesne.

Two days had wrought a dreadful change in her. She lay with closed eyes, and sunken face upon which ominous shadows played. Her respiration was imperceptible. The reputation of Dr. Bruce Cairn was a well deserved one, but this case puzzled him. He knew that Myra Duquesne was dying before his eyes; he could still see the agonised face of his son, Robert, who at that moment was waiting, filled with intolerable suspense, downstairs in Mr. Saunderson’s study; but, withal, he was helpless. He looked out from the rose-entwined casement across the shrubbery, to where the moonlight glittered among the trees.

Those were the orchid-houses; and with his back to the bed, Dr. Cairn stood for long, thoughtfully watching the distant gleams of reflected light. Craig Fenton and Sir Elwin Groves, with whom he had been consulting, were but just gone. The nature of Myra Duquesne’s illness had utterly puzzled them, and they had left, mystified.

Downstairs, Robert Cairn was pacing the study, wondering if his reason would survive this final blow which threatened. He knew, and his father knew, that a sinister something underlay this strange illness⁠—an illness which had commenced on the day that Antony Ferrara had last visited the house.

The evening was insufferably hot; not a breeze stirred in the leaves; and despite open windows, the air of the room was heavy and lifeless. A faint perfume, having a sort of sweetness, but which yet was unutterably revolting, made itself perceptible to the nostrils. Apparently it had pervaded the house by slow degrees. The occupants were so used to it that they did not notice it at all.

Dr. Cairn had busied himself that evening in the sickroom, burning some pungent preparation, to the amazement of the nurse and of the consultants. Now the biting fumes of his pastilles had all been wafted out of the window and the faint sweet smell was as noticeable as ever.

Not a sound broke the silence of the house; and when the nurse quietly opened the door and entered, Dr. Cairn was still standing staring thoughtfully out of the window in the direction of the orchid-houses. He turned, and walking back to the bedside, bent over the patient.

Her face was like a white mask; she was quite unconscious; and so far as he could see showed no change either for better or worse. But her pulse was slightly more feeble and the doctor suppressed a groan of despair; for this mysterious progressive weakness could only have one end. All his experience told him that unless something could be done⁠—and every expedient thus far attempted had proved futile⁠—Myra Duquesne would die about dawn.

He turned on his heel, and strode from the room, whispering a few words of instruction to the nurse. Descending the stairs, he passed the closed study door, not daring to think of his son who waited within, and entered the dining-room. A single lamp burnt there, and the gaunt figure of Mr. Saunderson was outlined dimly where he sat in the window seat. Crombie, the gardener, stood by the table.

“Now, Crombie,” said Dr. Cairn, quietly, closing the door behind him, “what is this story about the orchid-houses, and why did you not mention it before?”

The man stared persistently into the shadows of the room, avoiding Dr. Cairn’s glance.

“Since he has had the courage to own up,” interrupted Mr. Saunderson, “I have overlooked the matter: but he was afraid to speak before, because he had no business to be in the orchid-houses.” His voice grew suddenly fierce⁠—“He knows it well enough!”

“I know, sir, that you don’t want me to interfere with the orchids,” replied the man, “but I only ventured in because I thought I saw a light moving there⁠—”

“Rubbish!” snapped Mr. Saunderson.

“Pardon me, Saunderson,” said Dr. Cairn, “but a matter of more importance than the welfare of all the orchids in the world is under consideration now.”

Saunderson coughed dryly.

“You are right, Cairn,” he said. “I shouldn’t have lost my temper for such a trifle, at a time like this. Tell your own tale, Crombie; I won’t interrupt.”

“It was last night then,” continued the man. “I was standing at the door of my cottage smoking a pipe before turning in, when I saw a faint light moving over by the orchid-houses⁠—”

“Reflection of the moon,” muttered Saunderson. “I am sorry. Go on, Crombie!”

“I knew that some of the orchids were very valuable, and I thought there would not be time to call you; also I did not want to worry you, knowing you had worry enough already. So I knocked out my pipe and put it in my pocket, and went through the shrubbery. I