There was a silence for a moment after he had ended, then some one said: 

“You think it’s best that you should go?  You want to go to Johannesburg?”

“I didn’t say anything about wanting to go.  I said I’d go because one of us—­or two of us—­ought to go.  There’s plenty to do here; but if I can be any more use out there, why, Wallstein can stay here, and—­”

He got no further, for Wallstein, to whom he had just referred, and who had been sitting strangely impassive, with his eyes approvingly fixed on Byng, half rose from his chair and fell forward, his thick, white hands sprawling on the mahogany table, his fat, pale face striking the polished wood with a thud.  In an instant they were all on their feet and at his side.

Barry Whalen lifted up his head and drew him back into the chair, then three of them lifted him upon a sofa.  Barry’s hand felt the breast of the prostrate figure, and Byng’s fingers sought his wrist.  For a moment there was a dreadful silence, and then Byng and Whalen looked at each other and nodded.

“Brandy!” said Byng, peremptorily.

“He’s not dead?” whispered some one.

“Brandy—­quick,” urged Byng, and, lifting up the head a little, he presently caught the glass from Whalen’s hand and poured some brandy slowly between the bluish lips.  “Some one ring for Krool,” he added.

A moment later Krool entered.  “The doctor—­my doctor and his own—­and a couple of nurses,” Byng said, sharply, and Krool nodded and vanished.  “Perhaps it’s only a slight heart-attack, but it’s best to be on the safe side.”

“Anyhow, it shows that Wallstein needs to let up for a while,” whispered Fleming.

“It means that some one must do Wallstein’s work here,” said Barry Whalen.  “It means that Byng stays in London,” he added, as Krool entered the room again with a rug to cover Wallstein.

Barry saw Krool’s eyes droop before his words, and he was sure that the servant had reasons for wishing his master to go to South Africa.  The others present, however, only saw a silent, magically adept figure stooping over the sick man, adjusting the body to greater ease, arranging skilfully the cushion under the head, loosening and removing the collar and the boots, and taking possession of the room, as though he himself were the doctor; while Byng looked on with satisfaction.

“Useful person, eh?” he said, meaningly, in an undertone to Barry Whalen.

“I don’t think he’s at home in England,” rejoined Barry, as meaningly and very stubbornly:  “He won’t like your not going to South Africa.”

“Am I not going to South Africa?” Byng asked, mechanically, and looking reflectively at Krool.

“Wallstein’s a sick man, Byng.  You can’t leave London.  You’re the only real politician among us.  Some one else must go to Johannesburg.”

“You—­Barry?”

“You know I can’t, Byng—­there’s my girl.  Besides, I don’t carry enough weight, anyhow, and you know that too.”