"They have all gone with my man."
"All right, I am going round to see—bring a candle. All right, don't make a fuss, my good lady. Don't take that lamp; the officer will stay here while I go out."
The stout frau produced a piece of paper, and laid it on the table with all the confidence of a poker-player displaying a Royal Flush. The Tiger picked it up and read:—
"This is to certify that Hans Pretorius can be implicitly trusted to give all assistance to the military authorities. He has furnished the required assurances.
"(Signed) L——,
Resident Magistrate."
The Tiger held the slip of paper and photograph side by side for a moment, and then slowly lit the former in the flame of the lamp. The women and children stood solemnly and watched the blaze. Only the pretty girl showed any emotion. The faded blue of her eyes seemed to darken. She said something. It sounded like "hands opper."[9] How the Dutch hate the English Africander!
The Tiger only laughed as he said, "You wait here, sir, while I go round the premises. Come along, Mrs Pretorius."
The Intelligence officer had not been alone five minutes before the door opened and the pretty daughter appeared with a glass of milk on a tray. The look of indignation had disappeared—a smile lurked on the pretty features. Now the Intelligence officer was tired and thirsty—a glass of milk was most refreshing. Moreover, he was an Englishman—a pretty face was not without its charms for him.
The Daughter. "Please, sir, the Kharki[10] is taking Stephanus with him. You will not let him do that. There will be no one left to look after the farm and to protect us from the boys."
Intelligence Officer. "Who is Stephanus?"