"Show him up," said Van Zwieten, curtly; then, as she left the room, he made certain preparations. He closed the press doors and the lid of his iron box, seated himself at his desk, and glanced into a drawer to be sure that his revolver was handy. In Van Zwieten's walk of life it was necessary to be forearmed as well as forewarned. The man who shortly afterward came tramping into the room fully bore out Mrs. Hicks's description. He was of medium height and rather stout, and was roughly dressed in coarse blue serge, and had a tangle of black curls and a heavy black beard. He was not a prepossessing object. In response to Van Zwieten's invitation he shuffled into an armchair by the desk, and pushed it well back into the shadow. The act, though skillfully done, roused the Dutchman's suspicions. But he was accustomed in his delicate profession to deal with curious customers, and he showed no surprise. He did not even shift the shade of the lamp. But very much on the alert, he waited for the stranger to state his business. "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." "The name sounds like it." Dobbs looked disappointed and turned sullen. "He knows you, Mr. Jones!" "Indeed, that is not improbable. Did he send you to me?" "Yes, he did." Dobbs had dropped his American accent by this time, and only used it again when he recollected himself. "Mazaroff said you paid well for certain information." "What kind of information?" "About the war." He leaned forward and spoke in a gruff whisper. "What would you say to a plan of the whole campaign against the Boers?" Van Zwieten smiled blandly. "Of what possible interest can that be to me?" "Mazaroff said you would be prepared to pay well for such information." "He knows me then better than I do myself," replied Van Zwieten. "Better than I know him, for indeed I have no knowledge of your Russian friend. But this plan of campaign, Mr. Dobbs, how did it come into your possession?"