But another raid was nearing, a raid upon British territory this time.  The Rand would be the centre of a great war; and Rudyard Byng was not the man he had been, in spite of his show of valour and vigour at the Glencader Mine.  Indeed, that incident had shown a certain physical degeneracy—­he had been too slow in recovering from the few bad hours spent in the death-trap.  The government at Whitehall still consulted him, still relied upon his knowledge and his natural tact; but secret as his conferences were with the authorities, they were not so secret that criticism was not viciously at work.  Women jealous of Jasmine, financiers envious of Rudyard, Imperial politicians resentful of his influence, did their best to present him in the worst light possible.  It was more than whispered that he sat too long over his wine, and that his desire for fiery liquid at other than meal-times was not in keeping with the English climate, but belonged to lands of drier weather and more absorptive air.

“What damned waste!” was De Lancy Scovel’s attempt at wit as Krool dried his face and put the yellow handkerchief back into his pocket.  The others laughed idly and bethought themselves of their own glasses, and the croupier again set the ball spinning and drew their eyes.

“Faites vos jeux!” the croupier called, monotonously, and the jingle of coins followed.

“The Baas—­where the Baas?” came again the harsh voice from the doorway.

“Gone—­went an hour ago,” said De Lancy Scovel, coming forward.  “What is it, Krool?”

“The Baas—­”

“The Baas!” mocked Barry Whalen, swinging round again.  “The Baas is gone to find a rope to tie Oom Paul to a tree, as Oom Paul tied you at Lichtenburg.”

Slowly Krool’s eyes went round the room, and then settled on Barry Whalen’s face with owl-like gravity.  “What the Baas does goes good,” he said.  “When the Baas ties, Alles zal recht kom.”

He turned away now with impudent slowness, then suddenly twisted his body round and made a grimace of animal-hatred at Barry Whalen, his teeth showing like those of a wolf.

“The Baas will live long as he want,” he added, “but Oom Paul will have your heart—­and plenty more,” he added, malevolently, and moved into the darkness without, closing the door behind him.

A shudder passed through the circle, for the uncanny face and the weird utterance had the strange reality of fate.  A gloom fell on the gamblers suddenly, and they slowly drew into a group, looking half furtively at one another.

The wheel turned on the roulette-table, the ball clattered.

“Rien ne va plus!” called the croupier; but no coins had fallen on the green cloth, and the wheel stopped spinning for the night, as though by common consent.

“Krool will murder you some day, Barry,” said Fleming, with irritation.  “What’s the sense in saying things like that to a servant?”

“How long ago did Rudyard leave?” asked De Lancy Scovel, curiously.  “I didn’t see him go.  He didn’t say good-night to me.  Did he to you—­to any of you?”