"I believe so. He calls himself Jones, and a good many spies go up to see Mr. Jones. The scoundrel! To plot treason almost in the shadow of the Clock Tower! But I do not blame him so much as those who are betraying their country. After all, Van Zwieten is a foreigner, and naturally hates us; but there are Englishmen, Brenda--Englishmen born and bred--who are selling secrets for Transvaal gold. I'd hang the lot if I could!" "Hush, Wilfred, don't speak so loud. Can you prove that Van Zwieten is a spy?" "Not yet; but I have a plan in my head to trap him." "He will not be easily trapped." "No; he is a cunning beast, but I'll get the better of him yet. When I tear his mask off he'll be forced to leave London. Hullo! there's your father!" Brenda turned pale as that familiar lean figure appeared on the platform. He was saluted with a groan. Several Union Jacks were waved defiantly in his face, and a few bars of "God Save the Queen" were sung with lusty strength. A small knot of people stood round him. Taking off his hat, he advanced to the edge of the platform. A few expressions, such as "God-fearing farmers," "greedy capitalists," "the Jingoism of Chamberlain," "the treachery of Rhodes," caught Brenda's ear, and then her father's voice was drowned in a roar of cheering and singing. In vain did Mr. Scarse hold up his hand for silence; in reply he was assailed with insults, and a lifeguardsman was shouldered and passed along the heads of the crowd, a red spot of color amid the neutral tints. Union Jacks were waved, "Rule Britannia" was sung. Many a groan was there for Kruger; many a cheer for "Joe"; and the close-locked crowd, maddened by the sound of its own voice, rolled and swung like a stormy sea. "Pore thing! pore thing!" said an old woman near Brenda, "I 'ope they won't chuck him into the fountings." "Oh, Wilfred!" gasped the girl, terrified for her father's safety. But the suggestion met with the approval of the crowd, and passed from mouth to mouth until it reached those immediately under the fountain. A roar went up to the sky, and several enthusiasts endeavored to clamber up the platform. The police beat them back, and order was restored for the moment. Then, as an appeal to the chivalry of the mob, a grim-looking female with a black bag came forward to speak. She commenced a highly abusive harangue, but it was drowned in laughter and a recommendation, in terms purely colloquial, that she should go home and tend any young offspring she might chance to have. The pro-Boers began to look disconsolate. Each effort they made to speak was abortive. A sailor jumped on the parapet opposite Morley's Hotel and waved a Union Jack. The mob saw and cheered, and roared out the National Anthem. Some threw apples and oranges at the orators on the platform, who promptly dodged behind the Column and endeavored to obtain a hearing on the other side, but with even less success.