“Prepare!” the cable to the Baas had read.  The Baas would be prepared for the thunderbolt to be hurled from Pretoria; but he would have no preparation for the thunderbolt which would fall at his feet this day in this house, where white roses welcomed the visitor at the door-way and the beauty of Titians and Botticellis and Rubens’ and Goyas greeted him in the luxuriant chambers.  There would be no preparation for that war which rages most violently at a fireside and in the human heart.

CHAPTER XX

THE FURNACE DOOR

It was past nine o’clock when Rudyard wakened.  It was nearly ten before he turned to leave his room for breakfast.  As he did so he stooped and picked up an open letter lying on the floor near the door.

His brain was dazed and still surging with the terrible thoughts which had agonized him the night before.  He was as in a dream, and was only vaguely conscious of the fugitive letter.  He was wondering whether he would go at once to Jasmine or wait until he had finished breakfast.  Opening the door of his room, he saw the maid entering to Jasmine with a gown over her arm.

No, he would not go to her till she was alone, till she was dressed and alone.  Then he would tell her all, and take her in his arms, and talk with her—­talk as he had never talked before.  Slowly, heavily, he went to his study, where his breakfast was always eaten.  As he sat down he opened, with uninterested inquiry, the letter he had picked up inside the door of his room.  As he did so he vaguely wondered why Krool had overlooked it as he passed in and out.  Perhaps Krool had dropped it.  His eyes fell on the opening words. . .  His face turned ashen white.  A harsh cry broke from him.

At eleven o’clock to the minute Ian Stafford entered Byng’s mansion and was being taken to Jasmine’s sitting-room, when Rudyard appeared on the staircase, and with a peremptory gesture waved the servant away.  Ian was suddenly conscious of a terrible change in Rudyard’s appearance.  His face was haggard and his warm colour had given place to a strange blackish tinge which seemed to underlie the pallor—­the deathly look to be found in the faces of those stricken with a mortal disease.  All strength and power seemed to have gone from the face, leaving it tragic with uncontrolled suffering.  Panic emotion was uppermost, while desperate and reckless purpose was in his eyes.  The balance was gone from the general character and his natural force was like some great gun loose from its fastenings on the deck of a sea-stricken ship.  He was no longer the stalwart Outlander who had done such great work in South Africa and had such power in political London and in international finance.  The demoralization which had stealthily gone on for a number of years was now suddenly a debacle of will and body.  Of the superb physical coolness and intrepid mind with which he had sprung upon the stage of Covent Garden Opera House to rescue Al’mah nothing seemed left; or, if it did remain, it was shocked out of its bearings.  His eyes were almost glassy as he looked at Ian Stafford, and animal-like hatred was the dominating note of his face and carriage.