“I do what I like,” said Krool, with a snarl, in which his teeth showed glassily against his drawn lips.  “No one make me do what I not want.”

“The Baas—­you have forgotten him,” said Wallstein.

A look combined of cunning, fear and servility crossed Krool’s face, but he said, morosely: 

“The Baas—­I will do what I like.”

There was a singular defiance and meaning in his tone, and the moment seemed critical, for Barry Whalen’s face was distorted with fury.  Stafford suddenly stooped and whispered a word in Wallstein’s ear, and then said: 

“Gentlemen, if you will allow me, I should like a few words with Krool before Mr. Byng comes.  I think perhaps Krool will see the best course to pursue when we have talked together.  In one sense it is none of my business, in another sense it is everybody’s business.  A few minutes, if you please, gentlemen.”  There was something almost authoritative in his tone.

“For Byng’s sake—­his wife—­you understand,” was all Stafford had said under his breath, but it was an illumination to Wallstein, who whispered to Stafford.

“Yes, that’s it.  Krool holds some card, and he’ll play it now.”

By his glance and by his word of assent, Wallstein set the cue for the rest, and they all got up and went slowly into the other room.  Barry Whalen was about to take the sjambok, but Stafford laid his hand upon it, and Barry and he exchanged a look of understanding.

“Stafford’s a little bit of us in a way,” said Barry in a whisper to Wallstein as they left the room.  “He knows, too, what a sjambok’s worth in Krool’s eyes.”

When the two were left alone, Stafford slowly seated himself, and his fingers played idly with the sjambok.

“You say you will do what you like, in spite of the Baas?” he asked, in a low, even tone.

“If the Baas hurt me, I will hurt.  If anybody hurt me, I will hurt.”

“You will hurt the Baas, eh?  I thought he saved your life on the Limpopo.”

A flush stole across Krool’s face, and when it passed again he was paler than before.  “I have save the Baas,” he answered, sullenly.

“From what?”

“From you.”

With a powerful effort, Stafford controlled himself.  He dreaded what was now to be said, but he felt inevitably what it was.

“How—­from me?”

“If that Fellowes’ letter come into his hands first, yours would not matter.  She would not go with you.”

Stafford had far greater difficulty in staying his hand than had Barry Whalen, for the sjambok seemed the only reply to the dark suggestion.  He realized how, like the ostrich, he had thrust his head into the sand, imagining that no one knew what was between himself and Jasmine.  Yet here was one who knew, here was one who had, for whatever purpose, precipitated a crisis with Fellowes to prevent a crisis with himself.

Suddenly Stafford thought of an awful possibility.  He fastened the gloomy eyes of the man before him, that he might be able to see any stir of emotion, and said:  “It did not come out as you expected?”