“Altogether—­yes.”

“You wished to part Mr. and Mrs. Byng.  That did not happen.”

“The Baas is going to South Africa.”

“And Mr. Fellowes?”

“He went like I expec’.”

“He died—­heart failure, eh?”

A look of contempt, malevolence, and secret reflection came into Krool’s face.  “He was kill,” he said.

“Who killed him?”

Krool was about to shrug his shoulders, but his glance fell on the sjambok, and he made an ugly gesture with his lean fingers.  “There was yourself.  He had hurt you—­you went to him....  Good!  There was the Baas, he went to him.  The dead man had hurt him....  Good!”

Stafford interrupted him by an exclamation.  “What’s that you say—­the Baas went to Mr. Fellowes?”

“As I tell the vrouw, Mrs. Byng, when she say me go from the house to-day—­I say I will go when the Baas send me.”

“The Baas went to Mr. Fellowes—­when?”

“Two hours before you go, and one hour before the vrouw, she go.”

Like some animal looking out of a jungle, so Krool’s eyes glowed from beneath his heavy eyebrows, as he drawled out the words.

“The Baas went—­you saw him?”

“With my own eyes.”

“How long was he there?”

“Ten minutes.”

“Mrs. Byng—­you saw her go in?”

“And also come out.”

“And me—­you followed me—­you saw me, also?”

“I saw all that come, all that go in to him.”

With a swift mind Stafford saw his advantage—­the one chance, the one card he could play, the one move he could make in checkmate, if, and when, necessary.  “So you saw all that came and went.  And you came and went yourself!”

His eyes were hard and bright as he held Krool’s, and there was a sinister smile on his lips.

“You know I come and go—­you say me that?” said Krool, with a sudden look of vague fear and surprise.  He had not foreseen this.

“You accuse yourself.  You saw this person and that go out, and you think to hold them in your dirty clutches; but you had more reason than any for killing Mr. Fellowes.”

“What?” asked Krool, furtively.

“You hated him because he was a traitor like yourself.  You hated him because he had hurt the Baas.”

“That is true altogether, but—­”

“You need not explain.  If any one killed Mr. Fellowes, why not you?  You came and went from his rooms, too.”

Krool’s face was now yellowish pale.  “Not me . . . it was not me.”

“You would run a worse chance than any one.  Your character would damn you—­a partner with him in crime.  What jury in the world but would convict you on your own evidence?  Besides, you knew—­”

He paused to deliver a blow on the barest chance.  It was an insidious challenge which, if it failed, might do more harm to others, might do great harm, but he plunged.  “You knew about the needle.”