“Like that—­like that, jackal!” interjected Barry Whalen, opening and shutting his lean fingers with a gesture of savage possession.

“What?” asked Krool, with a malevolent thrust forward of his head.  “What?”

“You betrayed us to Kruger,” answered Wallstein, holding the papers.  “We have here the proof at last.”

“You betrayed England and her secrets, and yet you think that the English law would protect you against this,” said Barry Whalen, harshly, handling the sjambok.

“What I betray?” Krool asked again.  “What I tell?”

With great deliberation Wallstein explained.

“Where proof?” Krool asked, doggedly.

“We have just enough to hang you,” said Wallstein, grimly, and lifted and showed the papers Barry Whalen had brought.

An insolent smile crossed Krool’s face.

“You find out too late.  That Fellowes is dead.  So much you get, but the work is done.  It not matter now.  It is all done—­altogether.  Oom Paul speaks now, and everything is his—­from the Cape to the Zambesi, everything his.  It is too late.  What can to do?” Suddenly ferocity showed in his face.  “It come at last.  It is the end of the English both sides the Vaal.  They will go down like wild hogs into the sea with Joubert and Botha behind them.  It is the day of Oom Paul and Christ.  The God of Israel gives to his own the tents of the Rooineks.”

In spite of the fierce passion of the man, who had suddenly disclosed a side of his nature hitherto hidden—­the savage piety of the copper Boer impregnated with stereotyped missionary phrasing, Ian Stafford almost laughed outright.  In the presence of Jews like Sobieski it seemed so droll that this half-caste should talk about the God of Israel, and link Oom Paul’s name with that of Christ the great liberator as partners in triumph.

In all the years Krool had been in England he had never been inside a place of worship or given any sign of that fanaticism which, all at once, he made manifest.  He had seemed a pagan to all of his class, had acted as a pagan.

Barry Whalen, as well as Ian Stafford, saw the humour of the situation, while they were both confounded by the courageous malice of the traitor.  It came to Barry’s mind at the moment, as it came to Ian Stafford’s, that Krool had some card to play which would, to his mind, serve him well; and, by instinct, both found the right clue.  Barry’s anger became uneasiness, and Stafford’s interest turned to anxiety.

There was an instant’s pause after Krool’s words, and then Wolff the silent, gone wild, caught the sjambok from the hands of Barry Whalen.  He made a movement towards Krool, who again suddenly shrank, as he would not have shrunk from a weapon of steel.

“Wait a minute,” cried Fleming, seizing the arm of his friend.  “One minute.  There’s something more.”  Turning to Wallstein, he said, “If Krool consents to leave England at once for South Africa, let him go.  Is it agreed?  He must either be dealt with adequately, or get out.  Is it agreed?”