“We have been the victims of treachery for years,” burst out Fleming, with anger.  “Nearly everything we’ve done here, nearly everything the Government has done here, has been known to Kruger—­ever since the Raid.”

“I think it could have been stopped,” said the once Sobieski, with an ugly grimace, and an attempt at an accent which would suit his new name.  “Byng’s to blame.  We ought to have put down our feet from the start.  We’re Byng-ridden.”

“Keep a civil tongue, Israel,” snarled Barry Whalen.  “You know nothing about it, and that is the state in which you most shine—­in your natural state of ignorance, like the heathen in his blindness.  But before Byng comes I’d better give you all some information I’ve got.”

“Isn’t it for Byng to hear?” asked Fleming.

“Very much so; but it’s for you all to decide what’s to be done.  Perhaps Mr. Stafford can help us in the matter, as he has been with Byng very lately.”  Wallstein looked inquiringly towards Stafford.

The group nodded appreciatively, and Stafford came forward to the table, but without seating himself.  “Certainly you may command me,” he said.  “What is the mystery?”

In short and abrupt sentences Barry Whalen, with an occasional interjection and explanation from Wallstein, told of the years of leakage in regard to their plans, of moves circumvented by information which could only have been got by treacherous means either in South Africa or in London.

“We didn’t know for sure which it was,” said Barry, “but the proof has come at last.  One of Kruger’s understrappers from Holland was successfully tapped, and we’ve got proof that the trouble was here in London, here in this house where we sit—­Byng’s home.”

There was a stark silence, in which more than one nodded significantly, and looked round furtively to see how the others took the news.

“Here is absolute proof.  There were two in it here—­Adrian Fellowes and Krool.”

“Adrian Fellowes!”

It was Ian Stafford’s voice, insistent and inquiring.

“Here is the proof, as I say.”  Barry Whalen leaned forward and pushed a paper over on the table, to which were attached two or three smaller papers and some cablegrams.  “Look at them.  Take a good look at them and see how we’ve been done—­done brown.  The hand that dipped in the same dish, as it were, has handed out misfortune to us by the bucketful.  We’ve been carted in the house of a friend.”

The group, all standing, leaned over, as Barry Whalen showed them the papers, one by one, then passed them round for examination.

“It’s deadly,” said Fleming.  “Men have had their throats cut or been hanged for less.  I wouldn’t mind a hand in it myself.”

“We warned Byng years ago,” interposed Barry, “but it was no use.  And we’ve paid for it par and premium.”

“What can be done to Krool?” asked Fleming.

“Nothing particular—­here,” said Barry Whalen, ominously.