“Now, Mr. Telegraph Clerk, as you understand this tack-hammer language, and as I could see you’ve been following all the messages that’s been sent, just tell me the whole lot of it, please, as near as you can remember.”

“He called up London first, and gave what sounded like a registered address, and sent the word ‘corruscate.’  That’s probably code; anyway I don’t know what it meant.  Then he called the Cape, and sent a message to the Governor.  He hadn’t got to the end, and there was no signature, but it was evidently intended to make them believe that it was sent from the Colonial Office at home.”

“Well,” said Kettle, “what was the message?”

“Good Lord, man, he’s directing the Governor to declare war on the Transvaal.  You know there’s been trouble with them lately, and they’ll believe that it comes from the right place.  If this is some stock-jobbing plant—­”

“It is.”

“Then, by heavens, it’ll be carried through unless you let me stop it at once.  The thing’s plausible enough—­”

But here White recovered from his temporary scare, and cut in with a fine show of authority.  “S’help me, Kettle, you’re making a pretty mess of things.  You make me knock off in the middle of a message, and they’ll not know what’s up at the other end if I don’t go on.  Look at that mirror.”

“I see the spot of light winking about.”

“That’s the operator at the next station calling me.”

“But is it true what this gentleman’s been telling me?”

“I suppose it is, more or less.  But what of that?  What did you lose your temper for like this?  You knew quite well what we came here for.”

“I knew you came to steal money from stockbrokers.  I knew nothing about going to try and run my country in for a war.”

“Poof, that’s nothing.  The war would not hurt you and me.  Besides, it must go on now.  I’ve cabled my partner in London to be a bear in Kaffirs for all he’s worth.  We must smash all the instruments here so they can’t contradict the news, and then be off.”

“Your partner can be a bear or any other kind of beast, in any sort of niggers he chooses, but I’m not going to let you run England into war at any price.”

“Pah, my good man, what does that matter to you?  What’s England ever done for you?”

“I live there,” said Kettle, “when I’m at home, and as I’ve lived everywhere else in the world, I’m naturally a bit more fond of the old shop than if I’d never gone away from her beach.  No, Mr. White, England’s never done anything special for me that I could, so to speak, put my finger on, but—­ah would you!”

White, in desperation, had made a grab at the revolver lying on the instrument table, but with a quick rush Kettle possessed himself of it, and Mr. White found himself again looking down the muzzle of Captain Kettle’s weapon.

But a moment later the aim was changed.  Sheriff, hearing the whispered talk, had come in through the doorway to see what it was about, and promptly found himself favored in his turn.