egg in the little lady's
nest of ambitions was the desire to do a flutter on the Secret Service
lay.

She wanted to be what he termed a "slew," and she would have called a spy.
He fiddled to her dancing, and wearied before she did.

"What Woman has done Woman may do!" was the burden of her ceaseless song.
And when she left the train at Gueldersdorp, "_Au revoir_" said she with a
flash of her bright black eyes, nodding to the big Colonial, who was so
excessively civil about handing out her dressing-case and travelling-bag.
"Many thanks, and don't give me away if you should happen to meet me in a
different skin one of these fine days, Mr. Van Busch."

"Sure, no; not I," said the burly Johannesburger, with an effusion of what
looked like genuine admiration. "By thunder! when it comes to playing the
risky game there's no daring to beat a woman's. Give me a petticoat, say
I, for a partner every time."

"Bravo!" Her eyes snapped approvingly. She waved a little hand towards a
large pink officer of the British Imperial Staff, who was looking into all
the first-class compartments in search of a wife who had been vainly
entreated to remain at Cape Town. "There's my husband, who entertains the
precisely opposite opinion. But he hasn't your experience--only a theory
worn thin by generations of ancestors, all chivalrous Conservative
noodles, who kept their females in figurative cotton-wool. Do let me
introduce you. I'd simply love to have him hear you talk."

Van Busch did not pant to make the acquaintance of the Military
Authorities. He thanked the impulsive Lady Hannah, but made haste to climb
back into the train. The big pink officer recognised the object of his
search, and strode down the platform bellowing a welcome. As Lady Hannah
waved in reply, the Johannesburger made a long arm from the window, and
thrust a pencil-scrawled card into the tiny gloved hand.

"S's'h! Shove that away somewhere safe," said Van Busch, in a thrillingly
mysterious whisper; "and, remember, any time you want to learn the lay of
the land and follow up the spoor of movements on the quiet, that Van
Busch, of the British South African Secret War-Intelligence-Bureau, is the
man to put you on. A line to that address, care of W. Bough, will always
get me. And with nerve and josh like yours, and plenty of money for
palm-oil...." His greedy mouth made a grinning red gash in the smug brown
face with the fine whiskers of blackish-brown. His cold eyes scinti