"What is, is." The brute laughed.

"No, I can't take a letter to the Captain," he said; "I saw Jan Vanzyl shoot him.

He fell _so_," and suddenly he collapsed all in a heap on the path, in imitation of a man struck dead by a bullet.

"I can't take _him_ a message, missie," he went on, rising, "but one day you will be able to go and look for him yourself.

I did not mean that; what I meant was that I could take a letter to Frank Muller.