I'm not mad,
really, except perhaps on this point, Mr. Quatermain,"--this in a low
and thrilling voice--"that marvellous Cypripedium--your friend is
right, it is a Cypripedium--is worth a gold mine."
"From my experience of gold mines I can well believe that," I said
tartly, and, I may add, prophetically.
"Oh! I mean a gold mine in the figurative and colloquial sense, not as
the investor knows it," he answered. "That is, the plant on which it
grew is priceless. Where is the plant, Mr. Quatermain?"
"In a rather indefinite locality in Africa east by south," I replied.
"I can't place it to within three hundred miles."
"That's vague, Mr. Quatermain. I have no right to ask it, seeing that
you know nothing of me, but I assure you I am respectable, and in
short, would you mind telling me the story of this flower?"
"I don't think I should," I replied, a little doubtfully. Then, after
another good look at him, suppressing all names and exact localities,
I gave him the outline of the tale, explaining that I wanted to find
someone who would finance an expedition to the remote and romantic
spot where this particular Cypripedium was believed to grow.
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