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Updated: June 18, 2025
The last time any of them, except Wallstein, had seen Byng, was on the evening when he had overheard the slanders concerning Jasmine, and none had pleasant anticipation of this meeting with him now. They recalled his departure when Barry Whalen had said, "God, how he hates us." He was not likely to hate them less, when they proved that Fellowes and Krool had betrayed him and them all.
Wallstein knew little and cared less about politics; yet he saw the use of politics in finance, and he did not stick his head into the sand as some of his colleagues did when political activities hampered their operations.
Byng scanned it very carefully and slowly, and his face darkened as he read; for there were certain things set down of which only he and Wallstein and one or two others knew; which only he and one high in authority in England knew, besides Wallstein. His face slowly reddened with anger.
Just before they went to the dining-room Byng came in and cheerily greeted Stafford, apologizing for having forgotten his engagement to dine with Wallstein. "But you and Jasmine will have much to talk about," he said "such old friends as you are; and fond of books and art and music and all that kind of thing.... Glad to see you looking so well, Stafford," he continued.
Still, things that Rudyard had said before he left the house to dine with Wallstein, leaving her with Stafford, persistently recurred to her mind. "What's the matter?" had been Rudyard's troubled cry. "We've got everything everything, and yet !" Her eyes were not opened. She had had a shock, but it had not stirred the inner, smothered life; there had been no real revelation.
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.
He would never have made money, in spite of the fact that his prescience, his mining sense, his diagnosis of the case of a mine, as Byng called it, had been a great source of wealth to others, had it not been for Wallstein and Byng.
"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.
Krool's wild, sullen, trembling look sought the window, but he had no heart for that enterprise thirty feet to the pavement below. "The sjambok, Baas," he said. Once again Byng moved forward on him, and once again Krool's cry rang out, but not so loud. It was like that of an animal in torture. In the next room, Wallstein and Stafford and the others heard it, and understood.
There was something almost authoritative in his tone. "For Byng's sake his wife you understand," was all Stafford had said under his breath, but it was an illumination to Wallstein, who whispered to Stafford. "Yes, that's it. Krool holds some card, and he'll play it now."
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