o frequented De Lancy Scovel's house; and he had,
in his own house, a roulette-table and a card-room like a
banqueting-hall. Wallstein, Wolff, Barry Whalen, Fleming, Hungerford,
Reuter, and the others of the inner circle he laughed at in a
good-natured way for coddling themselves, and called them--not without
some truth--valetudinarians. Indeed, the hard life of the Rand in the
early days, with the bad liqueur and the high veld air, had brought to
most of the Partners inner physical troubles of some kind; and their
general abstention was not quite voluntary moral purpose.

Of them all, except De Lancy Scovel, Rudyard was most free from any
real disease or physical weakness which could call for the care of a
doctor. With a powerful constitution, he had kept his general health
fairly, though strange fits of depression had consumed him of late, and
the old strong spring and resilience seemed going, if not gone, from
his mind and body. He was not that powerful virile animal of the day
when he caught Al'mah in his arms and carried her off the stage at
Covent Garden. He was vaguely conscious of the great change in him, and
Barry Whalen, who, with all his faults, would have gone to the gallows
for him, was ever vividly conscious of it, and helplessly resented the
change. At the time of the Jameson Raid Rudyard Byng had gripped the
situation with skill, decision, and immense resource, giving as much
help to the government of the day as to his colleagues and all British
folk on the Rand.

But another raid was nearing, a raid upon British territory this time.
The Rand would be the centre of a great war; and Rudyard Byng was not
the man he had been, in spite of his show of valour and vigour at the
Glencader Mine. Indeed, that incident had shown a certain physical
degeneracy--he had been too slow in recovering from the few bad hours
spent in the death-trap. The government at Whitehall still consulted
him, still relied upon his knowledge and his natural tact; but secret
as his conferences were with the authorities, they were not so secret
that criticism was not viciously at work. Women jealous of Jasmine,
financiers envious of Rudyard, Imperial politicians resentful of his
influence, did their best to present him in the worst light possible.
It was more than whispered that he sat too long over his wine, and that
his desire for fiery liquid at other than meal-times was not in keeping
with the English climate, but belonged to lands o