me,
Barry."

"We're in heavy seas, and we don't want any wreckers on the shore," was
the moody and nervously indignant reply.

"Well, Krool's in the heavy seas, all right, too--with me."

Barry Whalen persisted. "We're in for complications, Byng. England has
to take a hand in the game now with a vengeance. We don't want any
spies. He's more Boer than native."

"There'll be nothing Krool can get worth spying for. If we keep our
mouths shut to the outside world, we'll not need fear any spies. I'm
not afraid of Krool. We'll not be sold by him. Though some one inside
will sell us perhaps--as the Johannesburg game was sold by some one
inside."

There was a painful silence, and more than one man looked at his
fellows furtively.

"We will do nothing that will not bear the light of day, and then we
need not fear any spying," continued Byng.

"If we have secret meetings and intentions which we don't make public,
it is only what governments themselves have; and we keep them quiet to
prevent any one taking advantage of us; but our actions are
justifiable. I'm going to do nothing I'm ashamed of; and when it's
necessary, or when and if it seems right to do so, I'll put all my
cards on the table. But when I do, I'll see that it's a full hand--if I
can."

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