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"Blood is thicker than water, Byng, and double pay to a poor man is a consideration." "Krool would do nothing that injured me, Barry. I know men. What sort of thing has been given away to Brother Boer?" Barry took from his pocket a paper and passed it over.
Their alliance was only the durable alliance of those who have seen Death at their door, and together have driven him back. Barry Whalen had regarded Krool as a spy; all Britishers who came and went in the path to Rudyard's door had their doubts or their dislike of him; and to every servant of the household he was a dark and isolated figure.
As Krool left the room he said to himself: "The Baas speaks her for his vrouw. But the Baas will go back quick to the Vaal p'r'aps." Then an evil smile passed over his face, as he thought of the fall of the Rooinek of Dr. Jim in Oom Paul's clutches. He opened and shut his fingers again with a malignant cruelty.
There was none of that unmanageable emotion in his features, the panic excitement, the savage disorder which were there on the day when Adrian Fellowes' letter brought the crisis to their lives; none of the barbaric storm which drove Krool down the staircase under the sjambok.
Well, you have lost that ambition. I know why you came out here. No one ever told me. The thing behind the words in your letter tells me plainer than words. The last time I saw you in London do you remember when it was? It was the day that Rudyard Byng drove Krool into Park Lane with the sjambok.
On Rudyard's lips was a faint smile, but it lacked the old bonhomie which was part of his natural equipment; and there were still sharp, haggard traces of the agitation which had accompanied the expulsion of Krool. For an instant the idea possessed her that she would tell him everything there was to tell, and face the consequences, no matter what they might be.
"Perhaps it's only a slight heart-attack, but it's best to be on the safe side." "Anyhow, it shows that Wallstein needs to let up for a while," whispered Fleming. "It means that some one must do Wallstein's work here," said Barry Whalen. "It means that Byng stays in London," he added, as Krool entered the room again with a rug to cover Wallstein.
He set about to restore Rudyard, as Krool prepared a bandage for the broken head. Down in the valley the artillery was at work. Lyddite and shrapnel and machine-guns were playing upon the top of the ridge above them, and the infantry Humphrey's and Blagdon's men were hurrying up the slope which Byng's pioneers had cleared, and now held.
Presently the sinister figure was lost in the confusion. It did not occur to him that perhaps Krool might be making for the same destination as himself; but the sight of the man threw his mind into an eddy of torturing thoughts.
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 of drier weather and more absorptive air. "What damned waste!" was De Lancy Scovel's attempt at wit as Krool dried his face and put the yellow handkerchief back into his pocket.
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