She wiped the tear away, hastily, as there came a slight tapping at the door, and Krool entered, his glance enveloping them both in one lightning survey—­like the instinct of the dweller in wild places of the earth, who feels danger where all is most quiet, and ever scans the veld or bush with the involuntary vigilance belonging to the life.  His look rested on Jasmine for a moment before he spoke, and Stafford inwardly observed that here was an enemy to the young wife whose hatred was deep.  He was conscious, too, that Jasmine realized the antipathy.  Indeed, she had done so from the first days she had seen Krool, and had endeavoured, without success, to induce Byng to send the man back to South Africa, and to leave him there last year when he went again to Johannesburg.  It was the only thing in which Byng had proved invulnerable, and Krool had remained a menace which she vaguely felt and tried to conquer, which, in vain, Adrian Fellowes had endeavoured to remove.  For in the years in which Fellowes had been Byng’s secretary his relations with Krool seemed amiable and he had made light of Jasmine’s prejudices.

“The butler is out and they come me,” Krool said.  “Mr. Stafford’s servant is here.  There is a girl for to see him, if he will let.  The boy, Jigger, his name.  Something happens.”

Stafford frowned, then turned to Jasmine.  He told her who Jigger was, and of the incident the day before, adding that he had no idea of the reason for the visit; but it must be important, or nothing would have induced his servant to fetch the girl.

“I will come,” he said to Krool, but Jasmine’s curiosity was roused.

“Won’t you see her here?” she asked.

Stafford nodded assent, and presently Krool showed the girl into the room.

For an instant she stood embarrassed and confused, then she addressed herself to Stafford.  “I’m Lou—­Jigger’s sister,” she said, with white lips.  “I come to ask if you’d go to him.  ’E’s been hurt bad—­knocked down by a fire-engine, and the doctor says ’e can’t live.  ’E made yer a promise, and ’e wanted me to tell yer that ’e meant to keep it; but if so be as you’d come, and wouldn’t mind a-comin’, ’e’d tell yer himself.  ’E made that free becos ’e had brekfis wiv ye.  ’E’s all right—­the best as ever—­the top best.”  Suddenly the tears flooded her eyes and streamed down her pale cheeks.  “Oh, ’e was the best—­my Gawd, ’e was the best!  If it ’d make ’im die happy, you’d come, y’r gryce, wouldn’t y’r?”

Child of the slums as she was, she was exceedingly comely and was simply and respectably dressed.  Her eyes were big and brown like Stafford’s; her face was a delicate oval, and her hair was a deep black, waving freely over a strong, broad forehead.  It was her speech that betrayed her; otherwise she was little like the flower-girl that Adrian Fellowes had introduced to Al’mah, who had got her a place in the chorus of the opera and had also given her personal care and friendly help.