"Is your name Jones?" asked the man, in a gruff, surly voice.
"Yes, that is my name. And yours?"
"Dobbs--Augustus Dobbs. I should have brought a letter to you, but I didn't. It's better to do my own business off my own hook, I reckon."
"Are you a Yankee?" asked Van Zwieten, noting the expression and a slight twang.
"I guess so. I come from N'York City, I do; and I fancy a run out to the Transvaal to have a slap at the Britishers."
"Indeed!" said the Dutchman, staring blankly at his visitor, "and what have I to do with your ambitions in that direction?"
The man drew the back of his hand across his mouth, and Van Zwieten noted that the hand was white and well cared for. This, in contrast to the rough dress and harsh voice, made him more circumspect than ever. He began to suspect a trap, and wondered which of his enemies--for he had many--could have set it.
"Do you know a man named Mazaroff?" asked Mr. Dobbs, after a pause.
"No," replied Van Zwieten, lying cheerfully; "never heard of him."
"He's a Russian."