to reclaim it, but stood still bewildered, as he saw Stafford
push it farther into the coals.

Silent, they watched shrivel such evidence as brings ruin upon men and
women in courts of law.

"Leave the whole thing--leave Fellowes to me," Stafford said, after a
slight pause. "I will deal with him. He shall leave the country
to-night. I will see to that. He shall go for three years at least. Do
not see him. You will not contain yourself, and for your own chance of
happiness with the woman you love, you must do nothing, nothing at all
now."

"He has keys, papers--"

"I will see to that; I will see to everything. Now go, at once. There
is enough for you to do. The war, Oom Paul's war, will be on us to day.
Do you hear, Byng--to-day! And you have work to do for this your native
country and for South Africa, your adopted country. England and the
Transvaal will be at each other's throat before night. You have work to
do. Do it. You are needed. Go, and leave this wretched business in my
hands. I will deal with Fellowes--adequately."

The rage had faded from Byng's fevered eyes, and now there was a
moisture in them, a look of incalculable relief. To believe in Jasmine,
that was everything to him. He had not seen her yet, not since he left
the white rose on her pillow last night--Adrian Fellowes' tribute; and
after he had read the letter, he had had no wish to see her till he had
had his will and done away with Fellowes forever. Then he would see
her--for the last time: and she should die, too,--with himself. That
had been his purpose. Now all was changed. He would not see her now,
not till Fellowes was gone forever. Then he would come again, and say
no word which would let her think he knew what Fellowes had written.
Yes, Stafford was right. She must not know, and they must start again,
begin life again together, a new understanding in his heart, new
purposes in their existence. In these few minutes Stafford had taught
him much, had showed him where he had been wrong, had revealed to him
Jasmine's nature as he never really understood it.

At the door, as Stafford helped him on with a light overcoat, he took a
revolver from his pocket.

"That's the proof of what I meant to do," he said; "and this is proof
of what I mean to do," he added, as he handed over the revolver and
Stafford's fingers grasped it with a nervous force which he
misinterpreted.

"Ah yes," he exclaimed, sadly, "you don't quite trust me yet--not
quite,