Krool was cowed and silent.  On a venture Stafford had struck straight home.

“You knew that Mr. Fellowes had stolen the needle from Mr. Mappin at Glencader,” he added.

“How you know that?” asked Krool, in a husky, ragged voice.

“I saw him steal it—­and you?”

“No.  He tell me.”

“What did he mean to do with it?”

A look came into Krool’s eyes, malevolent and barbaric.

“Not to kill himself,” he reflected.  “There is always some one a man or a woman want kill.”

There was a hideous commonplaceness in the tone which struck a chill to Stafford’s heart.

“No doubt there is always some one you want to kill.  Now listen, Krool.  You think you’ve got a hold over me—­over Mrs. Byng.  You threaten.  Well, I have passed through the fire of the coroner’s inquest.  I have nothing to fear.  You have.  I saw you in the street as you watched.  You came behind me—­”

He remembered now the footsteps that paused when he did, the figure behind his in the dark, as he watched for Jasmine to come out from Fellowes’ rooms, and he determined to plunge once more.

“I recognized you, and I saw you in the Strand just before that.  I did not speak at the inquest, because I wanted no scandal.  If I had spoken, you would have been arrested.  Whatever happened your chances were worse than those of any one.  You can’t frighten me, or my friends in there, or the Baas, or Mrs. Byng.  Look after your own skin.  You are the vile scum of the earth,”—­he determined to take a strong line now, since he had made a powerful impression on the creature before him—­“and you will do what the Baas likes, not what you like.  He saved your life.  Bad as you are, the Baas is your Baas for ever and ever, and what he wants to do with you he will do.  When his eyes look into yours, you will think the lightning speaks.  You are his slave.  If he hates you, you will die; if he curses you, you will wither.”

He played upon the superstitious element, the native strain again.  It was deeper in Krool than anything else.

“Do you think you can defy them?” Stafford went on, jerking a finger towards the other room.  “They are from the veld.  They will have you as sure as the crack of a whip.  This is England, but they are from the veld.  On the veld you know what they would do to you.  If you speak against the Baas, it is bad for you; if you speak against the Baas’ vrouw it will be ten times worse.  Do you hear?”

There was a strange silence, in which Stafford could feel Krool’s soul struggling in the dark, as it were—­a struggle as of black spirits in the grey dawn.

“I wait the Baas speak,” Krool said at last, with a shiver.

There was no time for Stafford to answer.  Wallstein entered the room hurriedly.  “Byng has come.  He has been told about him,” he said in French to Stafford, and jerking his head towards Krool.

Stafford rose.  “It’s all right,” he answered in the same language.  “I think things will be safe now.  He has a wholesome fear of the Baas.”