in it, I have had three
communications from your wife."

"You're pullin' my leg, sir, ain't you?" queries Bingo doubtfully.

"Not a bit of it."

In confirmation of the statement he takes out a shabby pocket-book, fat
with official documents, and, unstrapping it, selects three, and hands
them to Bingo. They are flimsy sheets of tissue-paper covered with spidery
characters in violet ink, and Bingo, taking them, recognises the
handwriting, and is, as he states without hesitation, confoundedly
flabbergasted.

"For they are in my wife's wild scrawl," he splutters at last. "How on
earth did they reach you, sir?"

"The first was brought in by a native boy who said he belonged to the
kraals at Tweipans," says the Chief. "Boiled small and stuffed into a
quill stuck through his ear in the usual way. He trumped up a glib story
about his cow having been killed and his new wife beaten by Brounckers'
men, and his desire to be revenged, and oblige the English lady who'd been
kind to him----"

"Umph! Native gratitude don't run to being skinned alive with
sjamboks--not much!" the other comments. "Chap must have been lyin', or a
kind of nigger Phoenix."

"Exactly. So I couldn't find it in my heart to part with him. He's on the
coloured side of the gaol now, with two others, who subsequently landed in
with the documents you have in hand there."

"Am I to read 'em?" Bingo queries.

His commanding officer nods, with the muscle in his lean cheek twitching.

"Certainly. Aloud, if you'll be so good."

Bingo reads, with haltings on the way, for the tissue sheets stick to his
large fingers, which are damp with suppressed agitation:

"HAARGROND PLAATS,
"NEAR TWEIPANS,
"_October 30th_.

"_To the Colonel Commanding Her Majesty's Forces in
Gueldersdorp._

"SIR,--I beg to report myself arrived at the above address,
twelve miles distant from the head laager of the Boer
Commandant, General Brounckers. I have to inform you that an
attack will be made on Maxim Kopje South by a large force of
the enemy with guns in the beginning of November.

"I have the honour to be,
"On Secret Service,
"Yours most obediently,
"H. WRYNCHE."

Bingo stares blankly at his Chief, the sheets of crumpled tissue wavering
between his thick, agitated fingers.

"I got that letter exactly a week after the attack had been made and
successfully resisted," says the Colonel's dry, quiet voice. "Read the
four lines