I.
THE GLOOMY CAVALIER.

That class distinctions should be marked by insuperable barriers is a theory that amounts to a religion with O’Hagan. The caste system of India is delightful to his exclusiveness. I think, between patricians and plebeians, he would like to erect a series of stone hedges. To the voice of Democracy he is deaf, and would have a governing body selected from the oldest families in the kingdom.

“To-day,” he will declare, “there are many gentlemen externally indistinguishable from grocers’ assistants. I know dukes who look like head waiters, and head waiters who look like earls.”

He throws back the folds of his astonishing satin-lined cloak, more fully to reveal its inner splendour.

“I, myself,” he confides, “have been mistaken for an impresario, and once for a professional conjuror. I have repeatedly been compelled to thrash my man in order to check attempts at familiarity.”

He sighs for the days when nobility unmistakably proclaimed itself; when an aristocrat was disgraced who dabbled in commerce and a tradesman castigated who raised his eyes above the level prescribed for him.

“A gentleman,” says O’Hagan, “is never at a loss for the right word at the right time. He knows when to throw down the gauntlet, and when to apologise (to his equals). In this way, factitious gentility often is unmasked.”

In support of this contention Captain O’Hagan will tell you a story.

One evening, at about seven o’clock, he chanced to be standing upon the corner of a prosperous suburban avenue in an exclusive, if slightly snob-ridden, district. As my memory serves me, he was waiting for a cab.

Merely to say that Captain O’Hagan stands upon a corner is to do poor justice to the verity. O’Hagan not only stands upon a corner; he occupies and ornaments it. With picturesque head, hatless, aloft—something of a rebuke to the Lady O’Hagan who was a contemporary of Charles II.—one gloved hand resting upon the heavy ebony cane, two fingers of the other dangling the large monocle, dependent on its black silk ribbon, his is a figure for long remembrance.

From the avenue came a lady escorted by a gentleman. The lady was young and pretty; her face peeped out from her wraps bewitchingly; and she carried one of those feminine sachet arrangements, in which, by the light of the street lamp, she anxiously searched. Her companion ransacked his overcoat pockets, his dress-coat pockets, his waistcoat and trousers pockets; and even looked in his crush-hat. When, following a hurried colloquy, he retraced his steps.

O’Hagan, his monocle held some three inches from his left eye, surveyed the charming figure, which now added a new beauty to the corner, with critical aesthetic appreciation. Do not suppose the attention a rude one. O’Hagan is incapable of rudeness to a woman. In another it had been rudeness—yes; but O’Hagan’s frank interest, though embarrassing, is an exquisite flattery. His approval is a superb tribute.

He approved. The lady was not unaware of this, nor in the slightest degree displeased. Returning the forgetful cavalier, the pair moved away past the Captain. And two bright eyes acknowledged admiration with a discreet glance swift as a rapier thrust.

But Jealousy has as many heads and as many eyes as Siva; nor has it a lesser malignancy. The man turned; strode back to O’Hagan.

“What do you mean, sir, by staring at my friend in that way?”

His voice, his gaze, his attitude, were truculent. O’Hagan was delighted with such a display of spirit. He dropped the glass and bowed.

“If your friend has complained of me, sir, I shall never forgive myself.”

“I await no complaint from her. I am complaining, confound your impudence!”

O’Hagan raised the glass again, measuring the depths of the speaker’s resentment. He considered the words ill-chosen and ill-mannered; and instantly had revised his estimate of the speaker’s character.

“An entirely different matter, sir,” says he. “You can go to the devil.”

The other flushed and thrust himself nearer to the suave Captain.

“You overdressed puppy!” he rapped furiously. “I have a mind to knock you down!”

Dropped the monocle; and a slip of pasteboard was thrust into the hand of the irate man.

“Your card, sir!” demanded O’Hagan. “At a more fitting time I will afford you every facility.”

“I only exchange cards with gentlemen! sneered the other, savagely; and tore into fragments the one he held.

“Your card, sir!” repeated O’Hagan sternly. “You have insulted me, and I demand an opportunity to reply to you. Your card, sir!”

“Be damned to you!” said the other—and walked off to rejoin the lady.

O’Hagan was but a pace later beside her. He bowed, as no man has bowed in England since the days of plumes and lace.

“Madam, permit me to offer you my most humble apologies for having annoyed you!”

Innocent eyes, with an imp of mischief dancing in their shadowed pools, met the Captain’s.

“You are mistaken, sir. You have not annoyed me in the slightest!”

(“She was a born coquette,” O’Hagan has confided to me; “but devilish pretty and full of spirit. Too joyous a nature by far to dovetail with the sour-jowl who had insulted me.”)

“Then permit me to apologise for your friend,” continued the amazing Captain, “who forces this necessity upon me by declining his card!”

“How dare you!” cried the friend, breathless. “Hang it all! I’ll give you in charge if you continue to annoy me!”

“Your card, sir,” persisted O’Hagan. “It is unavoidable that you afford me satisfaction for the insult placed upon me.”

“Come along, Moira,” breathed the enraged man, and offered his arm to the girl. “We shall be late for dinner. Never mind this lunatic!”

They proceeded. O’Hagan paced gloomily beside them. Some twenty yards thus; then:

“Clear out, confound you!” cried the man, turning upon O’Hagan with a leaping blaze of passion. “By heaven, you will make me forget myself!”

“You have done so already—for which reason I demand to know where I may find you.”

Choking—wrought upon to the limit of his endurance—the other stood, mouth atwitch, hands clenched.

“Your card, sir,” said O’Hagan icily.

The man addressed snatched again at the girl’s arm and hurried her onward. Speech, now, was denied to him; his companion could feel how he quivered and shook in the gale of his emotions. Somewhat, she was frightened; but in part, too, the novelty of the situation pleased the romantic within her. She knew not what to say apposite to the strange impasse, so wisely said nothing.

Captain O’Hagan completed the silent trio.

Through a gate whose opening discovered a carriage-sweep they passed. Upon a neat lawn lights blazed out from every visible window of a substantial mansion. The obstinate and enraged stranger recovered command of his tongue.

“How dare you follow me into these premises!”

“I am not a spy, to follow any man,” retorted O’Hagan. “I am accompanying you!”

The bell’s ring brought a trim maid. In the cosy hall, where a fire crackled good cheer, and a well-assorted array of hats and coats bespoke a convivial gathering, several loungers were revealed. As the sour man and the pretty girl entered, the unbidden visitor heard the former mention the name of the host, “Major Trefusis.”

Captain O’Hagan the maid eyed doubtfully. The new arrival smiled an evil triumph. But O’Hagan calmly handed his card to the girl.

“Request Major Trefusis to step this way!” he said.

His pose, as, standing just within the hall, he raised his glass and surveyed the guests, was a liberal education in deportment; his supreme self-possession a pure delight, a thing humanly inimitable.

—————

II.
THE OTHER.

Major Trefusis, retired, with an Indian liver but a warm heart, made a rushing entry, O’Hagan’s card in hand.

“What! brought a friend. Repton? Delighted to have you, Captain!”

The sour and wrath-sore Repton raised a protesting hand. His hat and coat the maid had taken charge of; his pretty companion, not daring to dally longer, had escaped into a drawing-room, with a smothered peal of musical laughter.

“One moment, Major!” Mr. Repton drew his sandy eyebrows together and glared upon the intruder. “This fellow is no friend of mine, he imagines that I have offended him and has followed me here, demanding my name and address like a confounded policeman!”

O’Hagan fixed his eyes upon Mr. Repton with quelling glance.

“You have likened me to a confounded policeman, sir. For which new insult I shall pull your nose!” He turned to Major Trefusis, in that hour the most surprised man from Land’s End to John O’Groats. “Mr. Repton is your guest, Major, and of him I shall say nothing, except that he has insulted me; deliberately, and several times. Our cause of misunderstanding is no concern of yours, happily; but as a brother officer and a gentleman you will support my claim to know where I may call upon Mr. Repton to-morrow?”

The Major’s prominent, Cambridge eyes regarded the quivering Mr. Repton, whose wrath yet was badly bottled, and escaped in divers sibilant exclamations.

“Don’t you know, Repton”—he said; “I mean to say, Repton, the Captain is within his rights, damme if he’s not! Why the blazes won’t you give him your card—what?”

“Because I don’t choose to hand my card to any ruffian who cares to ask for it, Major!”

Thus, Mr. Repton, making an effective exit by the same opening as the lady.

Major Trefusis watched him go, and his red face grew redder, and his wiry moustache more aggressively porcupinish. He snorted, cleared his throat, and turned to O’Hagan—who anticipated him:

“I regret this incident exceedingly, Major. Pray accept my very sincere apologies——”

“Not at all, Captain—not at all! You’re the O’Hagan who was with the —th Irish Guards in South Africa—what? Heard of you! heard of you! Delighted to meet you! It’s an ill wind—what?”

They shook hands warmly.

“If Repton wasn’t my guest—and my sister’s guest,” continued Major Trefusis, “I’d say he was a puppy and that I’d always thought so! But he’s in my house, and I can’t tell you what he doesn’t want to tell you himself. You’re just in time for dinner, Captain!”

“But, Major——”

“Give me your coat, man——”

“Really, Major——!”

“Brothers in arms and all that, what! Damme! you’ve got to stay!”

“I fear I am intruding——”

“Tut! tut! Come and have a peg. Just time! Were you in Kandahar when——” etc., etc.

And the pair, arm-in-arm, drifted off together—more strangely met than any two the classic muse has sung. O’Hagan’s reluctance in a degree was sincere, for he had formed a strong attachment for the Major at sight and would not gladly have inconvenienced him. But, on the other hand, no human power, save of course physically superior force, could have moved him from that house until his scrupulous honour was satisfied. Had his host proved of a different kidney, then O’Hagan patiently would have patrolled the neighbourhood until the reappearance of his man.

It is recorded, O’Hagan will tell you, that his ancestor Patrick, sometime of the Musketeers of Louis XIII., on one occasion waited for eight hours in the snow outside the hotel of the Duchesse de C——, in order to reprimand an unknown nobleman who had trodden on his corn. But within eight minutes from the time of the gentleman’s coming out, Patrick O’Hagan had aroused the concierge of the Hotel de C—— to take him in again, summoned a surgeon, summoned a priest, summoned an undertaker, and reported for duty at the Louvre. A bloody ancestor for any man.

My friend’s code, then, is peculiar, but iron-bound. He scrupulously avoided the topic of Mr. Repton with his host; but when, later, Mrs. Lestrange, the Major’s sister, came in to dinner on the arm of Captain O’Hagan, the countenance of Repton would have served as model for a Notre Dame gargoyle.

The Major, too, had been whispering to one man: “The O’Hagan! You recall the incident at so-and-so?” And to another: “O’Hagan, V.C.! One of the O’Hagan’s of Dunnamore!” To a girl: “You must have read how the Boers ambushed a company of the So-and-So’s at So-and-So? Kipling has written about it! Well, this is Captain O’Hagan, who,” etc., etc.

So that, altogether, my friend has assured me that he recalls no more enjoyable evening. His conversation is always brilliant, but on this occasion, I gather, he surpassed himself. All eyes were fixed upon the handsome, debonair visitant from an older world of romance; for O’Hagan is at heart a Musketeer. Moira Cumberley in particular found him wholly entrancing; and each glance of her bright eyes which rested upon the cavalierly figure, likewise poured gall and wormwood into two souls. One of these souls was the sombre soul of Repton; the other was the joyous but hungry soul of a certain Mr. Bruce McIvor.

(“I could see how the wind blew,” O’Hagan will explain. “McIvor was the favoured swain, and naturally enough; for he was a fine lad and descended from Robert Bruce. When, later in the evening, I was presented to Mrs. Cumberley—Moira’s mother—I discovered the fly in the ointment. Repton had money—but no blood, my boy; no family—and poor McIvor, though he could trace back to Bruce, was a mere free-lance journalist. Mrs. Cumberley also lacked breed, but worshipped Pluto. She had banned the McIvor and encouraged Repton. I saw my course plainly.”)

When my friend Bernard O’Hagan sees his course plainly, there are squalls a-brewing for any unhappy wight who queries the Captain’s navigation.

—————

III.
NATURAL SELECTION.

Moira sat out a dance with O’Hagan in the conservatory. Needless to say, the Captain does not dance. McIvor’s sighful acknowledgment of the girl’s disappearance rose above the music. Repton’s Mephistophelian glare pierced palm and fern. But Moira blushed, and settled down tête-à-tête.

“My dear little girl,” said O’Hagan blandly, “you are so very pretty and charming, that I am going to talk to you seriously about your lovers.”

Moira gasped as the amazing Captain took her hand and patted it paternally. Without preamble he had placed the conversation upon a thrilling level. It was a unique experience, but she rather liked it.

“Now, I sincerely hope you do not care for Mr. Repton,” continued O’Hagan; “because late to-night or early to-morrow morning I propose to pull his nose!”

“Oh!” said Moira. But the language of her eloquent eyes added: “Do him good!”

“He has asked you to marry him?”

(A rebellious glance).

“Has he not?”

(Slight nod).

“You have not yet given him your answer?”

(Head-shake).

“I am glad of that; because I want you to marry Bruce McIvor,” explained O’Hagan judicially.

“Indeed!” snapped Moira, with a mutinous shrug of pretty shoulders.

“Yes,” said O’Hagan. “I will tell you why. He is a handsome, fine man, and one of a brave and ancient race. He loves you in a way altogether different from Repton’s way.”

“Has he told you so?”—frigidly.

“No. I have not had an opportunity to speak to him yet! But it is so. With the stimulus of your affection, Moira, with the chance of such a prize as you, he will go far. I understand men of family, my dear, and I tell you that Bruce is a splendid fellow. As for you, Moira, I can only say that I should like to marry you, myself! But since that is impossible, I want it to be Bruce.”

He was curiously impersonal; a kind of directing Beneficence which from an Olympic height smoothed the tangled skeins of lesser lives. But there was a finality in his pronouncements against whose thrall the girl fought stubbornly with all the armoury of her woman-soul. For another than Bernard O’Hagan thus to have championed McIvor must have spelled ruin for McIvor’s cause; but if O’Hagan had been pressing the suit of an unknown, and not that of one towards whom the girl was predisposed favourably, his advocacy must have told. Moira experienced a sense of weakness; later, of absolute futility.

Once submit to the yoke of O’Hagan’s regal patronage, and you are lost. You become a mere pawn. His majestic interference is a stupendous force.

Mr. Repton appeared to claim a dance.

Muffled thunder seemed to be called for and a little incidental music in the form of a sustained chord in G minor.

“I have been having a chat with Moira, sir,” said O’Hagan, haughtily, rising as Repton entered.

The muscles of Repton’s jaws stood out, lumpish.

“We have decided,” continued the cool voice, “that your suit must be withdrawn! It is distasteful to Moira—and distasteful to me!”

Repton’s face, in the dimness, showed a greyish white. He swallowed noisily—and took a step towards Captain O’Hagan. Moira clutched at the Captain’s arm. She did not fully realise what had happened. Only she knew that this strange man, who half fascinated and half frightened her, had precipitated a climax in her life; had, from no personal motive that she could fathom—unless antipathy from Repton and friendliness to a descendant of Bruce—brought her love affairs violently to a head.

Resentment found place in her heart. Captain O’Hagan was a mere chance acquaintance. Yet—wondrous, expansively human O’Hagan!—she gladly sank her individuality in the overflowing lake of his own and was not philosopher enough to know the source of her contentment. Repton had been very attentive, had spent his money lavishly, but he had been more exacting than his position warranted. What a pity that Bruce was so poor!

For the world (so Moira’s mother taught) was ruled by a gilded Providence with a rod of iron: a rod of iron tipped with a magical talisman—a bright new sovereign.

Mr. Repton achieved speech.

“Is it—true . . . what this . . . ruffian . . . says?”

“I note that you call me a ruffian, sir,” said O’Hagan icily.

Moira Cumberley was trembling.

“I am—awfully sorry,” she answered, speaking with difficulty, “that this has come about. Don’t think I want to be bad friends, Mr. Repton. I want us to be friends always. But——”

“She cannot entertain marriage with a man whose nose I shall pull in the morning!” concluded O’Hagan. “I have other plans for her future. Your card, sir—and you may go!”

Is there another living could have framed such a speech?—another who could have carried such a situation in such a manner? I challenge you to produce him.

Repton turned on his heel. Of words he was bereft again; action was impossible.

—————

IV.
AT FIG TREE COURT.
I.

Captain O’Hagan entered my rooms whilst I was at breakfast—hatless, as is his custom; debonair, as he cannot fail to be. His presence has the curious effect of changing relative values. His individuality absorbs: one can no longer describe the scene: the scene is Captain O’Hagan. As he lounges upon the blue Chesterfield, with that odd pose of the hip which suggests that a rapier swings there, I often think that had he flourished contemporaneously with Velasquez he had surely inspired the artist to a supreme achievement. “Portrait of the Chevalier Bernard O’Hagan,” must have been counted the Spanish master’s chef d’œuvre.

“My dear Raymond, are you acquainted with a person of the name of Repton?”

“Sidney Repton, company promoter, newspaper proprietor, and so forth?”

“That will be the fellow! He gave me the slip last night! My position, as a guest, precluded the possibility of obtaining his address from another guest; and the fellow left without his hat. But his address was not in his hat. Where does he live?”

“39A, Fig Tree Court.”

“Will you come around with me?”

“For what, purpose?”

“I am going to pull his nose!”

“He will probably prosecute you!”

“I think not. But I am entirely at his service. And what about Bruce McIvor?”

“McIvor is a man of great promise. He has been unfortunate. He would make an ideal leader-writer. But he lacks the necessary influence to secure such a post.”

O’Hagan frowned thoughtfully.

“He lacks incentive, Raymond,” he said. “A man who can trace his ancestry to Robert Bruce requires no influence other than that of blood. Blood, my boy! that is the secret of success! When he is engaged to the girl he loves—the girl I have chosen for him—he will go far. Mark my words, Raymond; he will go far.”

“I was unaware that he was a friend of yours.”

“I have never spoken to him! But it is unnecessary. A leader-writer, you say? On behalf of an old-established and soundly Conservative organ, of course? Such vacancies, I take it, are rare?”

“Very rare. The leader-writer of the Universe is about to become editor. That will create a vacancy. But poor McIvor is not in the running.”

“How is that?”

“Well—your friend, Repton, is a big shareholder—managing director. And Repton—for some reason—is no friend to McIvor.”

“The reason is evident to me, Raymond. But I am wasting time. I shall be too late to pull Repton’s nose; and, owing to other engagements, the pleasure would have to be unduly postponed if I missed him this morning. Are you ready?”

“My dear fellow, you really must excuse me!”

O’Hagan rose, picked up his cane as though it were a sword, swung his shoulders as though to adjust a bandolier, and sighed sadly.

“I am disappointed in you, Raymond. Your ancestor, who helped to hold Limerick, would be disappointed in you, too, I fear. You are tainted with the modern heresies which substitute the solicitor for the second, the divorce-court for the rapier. Good morning.”

The dignified displeasure of the Hon. Bernard O’Hagan is a dire penalty for any man to incur. The Captain retired from my rooms as who should say, “There is a plebeian strain somewhere here!” It was a Charles rebuking a Buckingham; save that the Buckingham was a sorry Villiers, and the Charles a credit to the house of Stuart.

Leaving me to my breakfast and my humiliation, proceed with O’Hagan to No. 39A, Fig Tree Court.

His loud and long ring upon the bell of Repton’s chambers brought that monied and harried bachelor in person to the door. Repton wore slippers and a dressing-gown. His pale, blonde face faded a tone upon recognition of his early caller. Some dread there was, mingled with the anger of a man used to the servility which Talent accords to Capital; for the calmly persistent and imperious truculence of Captain O’Hagan is awesome.

O’Hagan extended his arm and seized Repton’s prominent nose in a vice-grip.

Uttering a furious imprecation, Sidney Repton struck out at him. But a pupil of Shashu Myuku (Grand Master of the Higher Jiu-jitsu) is elusive as a marsh-light. There are not six Europeans, my friend has assured me, initiated in the occultry of Japanese super-force.

Repton’s fists met vacancy. Obedient to a power which, seemingly percolating from his nose through every nerve of his body, rendered him helpless—log-like—Repton dropped, panting, to his knees. O’Hagan thrust him prostrate, entered, and closed the door behind him. The feat apparently was performed effortless; such is the outstanding wonder of this science (called, I believe, judo).

“Police!” gasped the outraged man. “Help! Police!”

“Sir,” said O’Hagan sternly, “I should not exploit these arts upon a gentleman. But your whole conduct has shown me plainly that you are not one. However, I shall now resort to the ordinary methods employed to chastise an offensive churl.”

He removed, a light grey glove (imbrued with the blood of Repton), cast it contemptuously from him; and, as Repton rose, clutching the maltreated organ, O’Hagan grasped his heavy cane with unmistakable intent.

“Now,” said O’Hagan, standing on the threshold, “you will recall having referred to me as an ‘overdressed puppy’! I have yet to deal with you in regard to the offensive terms ‘lunatic,’ ‘ruffian,’ and ‘confounded policeman!’ ”

“Curse you! I’ll kill you!” panted Repton and crouched, looking up to O’Hagan with glaring, malignant eyes which, at that moment indeed, mirrored a murderous soul.

“I think not,” was the reply. “Others have attempted the feat; but I am here to-day, alive to resent insult.”

The other did not rise. Repton already was defeated. The business-like ferocity of O’Hagan, the absolute efficiency of his methods, caused to evaporate what remained of the quality vaguely labelled Courage, leaving only the brine of bitter anger and mortification.

“What do you want?” he said slowly, racking his muddled brains for a mode of retribution which should not render him ridiculous.

He stood up and backed toward his desk.

“Remain where you are!” directed O’Hagan, pointing his cane. “Attempt to reach any weapon, and I shall thrash you until I am tired!”

“I am unarmed,” muttered Repton sullenly. “You have a heavy stick.”

The situation was wildly bizarre—unlike anything within his experience; of which he had dreamed. The querulous voice did not seem his own.

O’Hagan placed his cane upon a chair, and raised the monocle.

“Do you contemplate an attack?” he asked, with a kind of pleased surprise.

Repton dropped into an armchair, and sank his face in his hands. His inflamed nose robbed the scene of a certain pathos which otherwise had found place there.

“You will sit at your desk,” said O’Hagan, “and write a note to the new editor of the Universe informing him that Mr. Bruce McIvor will be his leader-writer.”

Repton was galvanised. He started up; clutched the chair-arms.

“I shall not! Your damned interference in my affairs——” His voice broke.

“Very well.” O’Hagan took up his cane. “The alternative is equally pleasing to me.”

“Look here!” Repton was on his feet again, hands twitching. “I’ve got no chance with you! You’re a bully!——”

“I warn you that I regard those words as a new insult. Indeed, that is the greatest insult of all. Should you term one a bully who sued you for slander?” O’Hagan’s eyes were bright. “Learn, that when you insult a gentleman, the choice of weapons is his! The law is a weapon for those who cannot fight their own battles, not for such as I!”

Ah! what would you have given to have heard him deliver that speech? But you cannot even picture him, head aloft, foot advanced; hear the ringing voice; quail before the flashing eye.

Repton wrote.

“Now, a letter to McIvor, giving him the appointment at the same salary as his predecessor.”

Repton grasped at the desk. The ferrule of O’Hagan’s cane tapped upon the writing-pad.

“At the same salary as his predecessor, Mr. Repton.”

The note was written.

“Ring up all your fellow-directors, or all whom you can,” ordered the Captain, “and tell them of this appointment.”

Repton hesitated. To comply was to burn his boats. The cane quivered in O’Hagan’s nervous grasp.

“It’s irregular. It may be annulled at Wednesday’s meeting.”

“If it is annulled I shall thrash you in public, when and where I next meet you. You will be at liberty to take what steps you please.”

Lifting the receiver from the hook, Sidney Repton made several calls, briefly communicating to those who ruled the Universe that Mr. Bruce McIvor was a desirable acquisition to the literary staff. He was vanquished. In aught save exact compliance he saw ridicule—the contempt of Fleet Street.

He turned to O’Hagan, pale faced, eyes flaming. Words trembled unspoken upon his tongue.

“Stop!”

O’Hagan spoke the word imperiously, and raised his hand.

“You have bought immunity,” he continued, “in respect of your insults from ‘overdressed puppy’ to ‘bully.’ Any you may utter henceforward I shall deal with separately.”

He strode toward the door; turned in a flash . . . and struck a revolver out of Repton’s hand. Stooping, he picked it from the carpet.

“I shall consider my action in the matter of this murderous assault, Mr. Repton,” he said icily. “My behaviour will largely depend upon your own.”

He slipped the weapon into his pocket, and turned again. The door slammed behind him.

—————

II.

We caught Bruce McIvor just as he was about to go out. I think I have never seen a man quite so blankly amazed as he when the letter of appointment was placed in his hand. I am more or less accustomed to the various emotions expressed by the victims of O’Hagan’s extraordinary philanthropy; but McIvor was positively alarming. He seemed to be dazed.

I think he experienced that kind of sentiment which makes a Frenchman weep, intoxicates an Irishman, but chokes a Scotsman.

In the cab which O’Hagan had in waiting we were a silent trio. O’Hagan leant back humming a gay melody, whilst McIvor sat watching him as if he half expected him to vanish like some Arabian ginn.

Into a charming little villa we filed. McIvor’s nervousness was appalling. He kept close to my distinguished friend, and hung upon his words as though in them alone he hoped for salvation. In a pretty, petite drawing-room we waited; the young Scot, seated on the edge of a chair, looking like a man on trial for murder; I hard put to it to preserve a serene countenance; and O’Hagan wandering from picture to picture, and surveying each through his uplifted monocle with the critical gaze of a connoisseur.

Then he turned the glass upon the door, drawing himself up with inimitable grandeur

Entered a very pretty girl, and a very prim lady, more mature; excellently but dryly, preserved.

McIvor rose and coughed and looked everywhere but straight before him. The pretty girl blushed frantically. The other lady stared, extending her hand to O’Hagan.

O’Hagan bowed. O’Hagan’s bow is a notable event.

His neat introductory speech ended with something to the effect that——

“My friend, Mr. Lawrence Raymond, would like to be counted among your friends.”

I was acknowledged.

“I am delighted, Miss Cumberley,” he continued, linking his arm in that of McIvor and drawing him forward, “to present to you the new leader-writer of the Universe. Mrs. Cumberley—your future son-in-law. Congratulations!”

Can you picture the scene? I think not. Heavens! what a man! I take off my hat to Bernard O’Hagan.

I.
THE BOOM-MAKER.

My friend Captain O’Hagan frequently is misunderstood; his studied singularity of appearance is falsely ascribed to a desire for notoriety. Whereas he eschews and abominates publicity of any kind, and merely seeks to establish a visible distinction betwixt the aristocrat and the plebeian.

The ever-increasing facilities for airing one’s grievances in long primer, he contends, are destructive of that chaste reserve once characteristic of our race. I agree with O’Hagan. He declares that we love to be interviewed.

“Is it not true, Raymond,” he cries, “that for the sake of seeing her photograph (retouched) in the columns of a daily paper, Mrs. Brown-Jones will reveal to the blushing public the secret of her corsets? Does she not draw attention to the graceful contour of her form, and she (the mother of a family) take the man in the street into her confidence, imparting to him intimate particulars respecting her wardrobe which, if used indiscreetly, would prove most compromising?

“Alas, O’Hagan,” I reply, “it is so.”

He throws himself back in his chair, purple-lined cloak widely flying; picturesque, hatless head raised in scorn. He is the focus of a hundred gazes.

“A young lady,” he continues, “whom one might assume from her picture in the advertisement column to be not wholly destitute of modesty, will inform edified readers that ‘until Mrs. Hodge brought me a box of Nippo Ointment my face was one red mass of pimples!’ She will declare that formerly she was unable to sleep at night owing to the itching of her back!”

His scorn is terrible; superbly fearful. Advertisement is anathema.

We are seated in the Park, wherein at the moment no one else is talked of but my distinguished friend. Those who have the honour of his acquaintance acquire a new popularity with the less fortunate. Several countesses and a charming duchess have repassed us no fewer than nine times. But O’Hagan, serenely insensible to the admiration which he excites in so many bosoms, lounges regally aloof, as one upon a lofty minaret who scarce glances down to the throngs beneath him.

An author of “costume” romances passes. His studiously cultivated resemblance to Napoleon III. usually earns him a buzz of acknowledgment. This morning he moves amid the chill of unrecognition, and raises his prominent moustache fiercely and rudely as he glares at my companion, who usurps all homage.

“That fellow stares in an unwarrantable manner,” says O’Hagan; and taking my arm, he proceeds in the same direction.

We overtake the author, despite my lagging footsteps; for I perceive that my friend is bent upon some extravagant act.

“Pardon me, sir!”

The author turns, glaring.

“But are you connected with the house of Buonaparte?”

The author, puzzled, faintly gratified:

“Not directly, sir. But what——”

“I regret that, sir. I cherish an antipathy from the family which I may term hereditary. Your reply deprives me of the pleasure of trimming your moustachios!”

The man is stricken speechless. It is such an encounter as he has portrayed (on paper) a score of times. But in the actuality it finds him lacking.

“For your whole appearance is most distasteful to me,” concludes the Captain. “Good morning.”

(We proceed.)

A trembling voice which says something about “a letter from my solicitor,” reaches our ears, faintly.

“The solicitor again, Raymond!” laughs O’Hagan. “Never the friend to measure the length of one’s blade! Your knights of the pen make sorry cavaliers!”

I grant it. And the worst of my bad dreams is that wherein—unaccompanied by the magnificent and terrible O’Hagan—I encounter some of those whom he has browbeaten in my presence!

But, as I think I already have stated, O’Hagan sometimes is misunderstood.

At a certain club, of which O’Hagan is not a member, my friend was introduced to an American gentleman who proclaimed himself a press agent.

(“I like Americans—real, full-blooded, whole-hearted Americans,” O’Hagan has told me. “I can even appreciate how, in an American, commercial acumen and gentility may be wedded. My great grand-uncle, Edmond, distinguished himself, as you remember, in the Civil War.”

His great grand-uncle, Edmond, is a favourite source of anecdote; but the impression left upon my mind is that a more truculent, bloodthirsty swashbuckler never breathed God’s air.)

“I am very delighted to have met you, Captain O’Hagan,” said the press agent, whose name was Alex. Dewson. “I would like to put up a proposition right now!”

O’Hagan fumbled, impressively, for the broad black ribbon upon which depends his monocle. He raised the glass, and, holding it at some little distance from his right eye, surveyed the speaker. O’Hagan’s right eye, magnified by the pebble, can show, on occasions, as a large grey orb of intolerance.

“You interest me, Mr. Dewson.”

“I’ll interest you some more yet, sir!” declared Dewson, with cheery confidence. “It’s likely you’ll have heard of a little author called Ronald Brandon?”

He spoke the words waggishly; as one might say: “You may have heard a little Stratford fellow, called Shakespeare, mentioned?”—or, “You’ve perhaps seen the name of a rather likely figure painter, known as Michelangelo?”

In point of fact, Ronald Brandon really was a “little” author; and, as it happened, O’Hagan never had heard of him. He has never heard of any modern fictionists; he regards them all with immeasurable contempt. Mr. Dewson’s question was purely a rhetoric question, however, and he proceeded without pausing for a reply:

“His new book (it’ll break all the windows) is ‘Jules Sanquin, Duellist.’ He’s placed his press work in my hands, and I’ve been looking for an introduction to you, Captain, for over a week! I can put up a proposition to net you a pile!”

“Indeed!” said O’Hagan, icily.

(“Such people as Dewson,” he has confided to me, “are calculated to bring disgrace upon a national character. He was the type of man who would have sought an audience with His Holiness the Pope, and ‘put up a proposition’ to boom St. Peter’s.”)

“My client, as you’ll know,” continued the irrepressible press agent, “is top-hole as a swordsman. Took out the team a year ago that beat the Frenchmen.”

Captain O’Hagan stared.

“They tell me you’re pretty handy,” resumed Dewson; “so here’s the goods in a nutshell: I’ll send down a shorthand-typist to your chambers to take a few notes; put a sound man to work; and in a week or a fortnight ‘My Affaires of Honour and Gallantry, by Captain the Hon. Bernard O’Hagan,’ will be in the press! I can promise you an advance of £500, my dear sir! Meanwhile, you insult Brandon, and meet him with rapiers on the French coast—press, cinema men, etc., in attendance. Out comes ‘Jules Sanquin, Duellist’—five editions subscribed. Out comes ‘My Affaires of Honour and Gallantry’—libraries gasping! How d’you like the title? Affaires—see? French. Get the literary flavour right on the cover! How d’you like the proposition?”

The intolerant grey eye scrutinized the brogues upon Mr. Dewson’s feet and rose by gradations to the Stetson felt adorning the apex of his commercial brain.

“Is this delightful scheme a child of your own fecundity, Mr. Dewson, or has Mr. Ronald Brandon any share in its parentage?”

“I’m out raising no man’s laurel wreaths,” declared Dewson. “The proposition’s Brandon’s. How does it appeal to you?

“That portion of the ‘proposition,’ ” said O’Hagan, with frigid courtesy, “which has reference to a meeting on the French coast appeals to me keenly!”

—————

II.
LA BELLE LOTUS.

Those of you who have the privilege to be acquainted with my friend Bernard O’Hagan will find much scope for wonderment in the circumstance that Mr. Dewson proceeded thus far and survived, intact. No one but a successful press agent could possibly have mistaken the significance of the Captain’s icy calm. Anyone who, knowing him, had adventured upon such a proposal, must have been aware that, so doing, he carried his life in his hand. Mr. Dewson remained placidly ignorant of the fires which he was coaling.

“Will you come along now to Brandon’s flat?” he suggested, in his brisk way.

“It will afford me great pleasure. I am most anxious to meet Mr. Brandon!”

Passing over the short journey, then—throughout which almost every word of Mr. Dewson’s inspired O’Hagan with a new wonder at the shamelessness of the times, and added fuel to his resentment—enter the house of Ronald Brandon, novelist.

“Here he is, Brandon!” cried the press agent. “He’s coming in on it!”

Ronald Brandon was a tall and good-looking young man, carrying a certain athletic arrogance with poor grace. From his perfectly groomed fair hair to his white spatted, immaculately glossy boots he was an incarnate error of judgment. He had been encouraged to think himself a celebrity—and the whole thing was a mistake. He was not even in the same flight with the double of Napoleon III.

His casually extended hand Captain O’Hagan failed to observe. O’Hagan bowed with exceeding fine formality.

“Going to have a little bout with me, Captain?” laughed Brandon lightly.

“I am looking forward to it,” was the reply, “provided your status admits of my crossing swords with you.”

Dewson and Brandon stared uncomprehendingly.

“I mean, are you of gentle blood? To what Brandons do you belong?”

The novelist continued to stare.

“My governor is James Brandon, K.C., if that’s what you’re driving at!”

“Professional people?” said O’Hagan with exquisite condescension. “Never mind. For our present purpose, sufficiently respectable.”

What the now incensed Brandon might have said to that will never be known, for he was interrupted by the ringing of the bell, by the almost immediate entrance of a loudly pretty woman who was furiously overdressed, who struck the vision a sharp blow, from which one’s outraged eyes blinkingly recoiled. She was arrayed in a long coat of leopard’s skin, wore a motor bonnet of the same material, from the left side whereof, rearward, swept a golden plume of incredible length. Her hair was of the hue sometimes called Titian, but would have made Titian weep blood.

This lady—who proved to be French—was introduced as La Belle Lotus.

“Another client of mine, Captain!” explained Dewson, affably anxious to dissipate the thundery atmosphere which had settled upon the establishment. Brandon was scowling ferociously. “She is the latest sensation in dancers, sir. Her ‘Dance of Delilah’ is the talk of London! This is the lady you’ll quarrel about. Savvy? Three birds with one stone! All town will rush to see the girl two big men have fought over. Up go her bookings! How’s that for a three-handed boost? The limit?”

O’Hagan raised his glass.

“It strikes me as being appreciably beyond the limit!” he drawled. “But what has led you to suppose that I am desirous of publishing my memoirs?”

“You’re not out throwing away thousands, I take it?”

“On the contrary, Mr. Dewson. But, emphatically, I shall not publish any kind of book. You may omit that item from your ‘proposition.’ ”

La Belle surveyed the speaker appreciatively. Brandon watched him in angry perplexity. Dewson’s round eyes grew rounder.

“You don’t mean to say——”

“I have no intention of disturbing your admirable arrangements, Mr. Dewson. You may rely upon me to meet Mr. Brandon.”

“But ‘My Affaires’ ”——

“Dismiss the idea. It is out of the question.”

“Then what are you doing it for?”

O’Hagan, having examined minutely the visible attractions of La Belle Lotus—so minutely as to make her blush—dropped his glass.

“Your proposal is of such a nature, sir,” he replied calmly, “that no gentleman could decline to accept it.”

“I want to know how we stand,” burst in Brandon, his choler enhanced by the evident inability of the lady to withstand O’Hagan’s frank gaze. “Are you——”

“Am I going to meet you on the French coast, sir?” O’Hagan anticipated. “Emphatically, yes! Rely upon me!”

“That’s good,” rapped Dewson. “We’ll talk about the book, later. When you see eye to eye with me you won’t want to drop it. But you’re game for the little passage of arms? That’s the talk! Well, talking’s dry work. What about——”

“Excuse me.” O’Hagan raised his hand. “Pray excuse me!”

“But we’ve made no arrangements.”

“I am listening, Mr. Dewson.”

Dewson felt that he was being hustled.

“Well, I’d planned it to start on Wednesday night. Brandon and Yvette—La Belle—are having supper at Varano’s. I’m there, too; but not at the same table. Press boys there, of course. You blow in, and say or do something which Brandon’s supposed to take as an insult.”

O’Hagan, his head attentively tilted, nodded. La Belle was watching him, now, fascinatedly.

“I shall observe your wishes implicitly, Mr. Dewson!”

“Bit of a scene. Cards exchanged. Pars in the press.”

“A proviso, sir. My name shall not be mentioned.”

“Not mentioned!”

“Let all the credit be Mr. Brandon’s. I remain anonymous.”

“It’s sure to come out later. I don’t understand——”

“I am aware of that, Mr. Dewson! On the following morning, if I do not mistake you, Mr. Brandon’s friends call upon me, and the meeting is arranged?”

“That’s it! We’re supposed to be hushing it up, see? But it kind of leaks out!”

“Precisely. At what hour will Mr. Brandon be supping?”

“Say half-past eleven.”

“It is an appointment.”

Captain O’Hagan bowed to the leopard lady, looking challengingly into her eyes—turned from Messrs. Brandon and Dewson, and walked to the door. Upon Brandon’s tongue unutterable things trembled. Mr. Dewson was not entirely at his ease.

—————

III.
THE BOOM.

Captain O’Hagan entered Varano’s at half-past eleven on Wednesday evening. No more need be said. A sensation amongst the guests is understood.

For a moment he paused, glass raised. His pose was a poem in grace; his mode of surveying those who supped was a tribute so deliciously keen as almost to be insulting. He focussed the table whereat Ronald Brandon and the dancer were seated. Amid a cathedral silence, impressive and oppressive, he traversed the supper-room. To say that he crossed it would be inaccurate and inadequate; he traversed it.

“Sir!”—he bent over Brandon—“one moment. Mademoiselle!”—he smiled upon La Belle Yvette—“might I entreat you to step aside with me?”

She glanced at Brandon, flushing with excitement now that the moment of the “boom” was come. Brandon, who vainly had besought Dewson to recast the comedy—omitting O’Hagan—examined his finger nails. He was acting poorly. In fact he was pronouncedly “fluffy.”

La Belle rose and stepped aside with O’Hagan. She wore an amazingly daring and dazzlingly brilliant evening toilette; a tight-fitting silk gown coloured in imitation of a leopard’s skin. Dewson identified his clients with certain “make-ups” or trademarks. Thus, La Belle Lotus was “the leopard lady.”

Imagine every eye in Varano’s supper-room to be centred upon this wildly picturesque pair. O’Hagan, his cloak cast back in purple splendour, rested one hand upon his hip with a gesture which had not been inconsistent with the act of depressing a rapier hilt.

“Are you quite sure”—he bent towards her with inimitable gallantry—“that a scene here will enhance your professional reputation?”

She glanced up rapidly—and down again, shyly. She could not recall having feared to meet any man’s eye prior to encountering Captain O’Hagan.

“Mr. Dewson—he says so; and Mr. Dewson is so clever. He never makes mistakes.”

“I concede that Mr. Dewson is clever; but nevertheless he makes mistakes, mademoiselle. I am impartial. I can insult Mr. Brandon without involving you in any way. But, if you wish to be involved, command me.”

La Belle felt singularly helpless. Instinctively she divined that the forceful Mr. Dewson and the imperious Captain O’Hagan were advancing to no common end.

“It is better that we keep to Mr. Dewson’s arrangements, I think.”

“Very well.”

O’Hagan proffered his arm. He led her doorward. A sibilant chorus of gasps arose. Brandon was up, now. His face flushed deeply, and paled, vying in its pallor with the serviette which he crushed in one shaking hand. He thrust back his chair.

A staccato cough drew his gaze to a distant table. Mr. Dewson—conscientious stage-manager—feared that one of the cast was like to overact his rôle. Brandon hesitated, fuming.

La Belle Yvette knew a fearful joy. Her inordinate vanity was gratified by this scene, but even her great daring recoiled from that which pended. Yet she offered no real resistance. True, she placed her hand upon O’Hagan’s, but he calmly clasped it in his own.

“Act as I direct,” he said, bending his picturesque head and looking into the half-fearful eyes.

He glanced aside to where the head-waiter stood, a figure of pitiable indecision, a study in fatuous ineptitude.

“My man—this lady’s cloak.”

Upon the hushed silence of the supper-room the words rang out sharply.

The head-waiter hesitated. The head-waiter at Varano’s is a person of proper proportions and seemly dignity. It is no part of his important functions menially to run for hats and cloaks. O’Hagan’s unoccupied hand raised the glass.

“Were you aware that I gave you an order?”

The head-waiter became aware of the awesome fact. He departed.

Brandon’s chair fell backward. A wine-glass was dropped with a crash upon the floor beside Mr. Dewson’s table. But the prompting of the ingenious press agent now was unheeded. The novelist strode down the room. One or two of the male visitors half rose. Some of the women began to look frightened.

“Damn your impudence! Release that lady!”

Dewson slipped from his place and joined the interesting group. He placed his hand warningly upon Brandon’s shoulder.

“Don’t lose your wool!” he whispered. “It’s going great!”

Brandon shook him off.

“Do you hear me? Release that lady! Yvette! stand aside, I beg of you! I have something to say to this person!”

La Belle looked from face to face. All was not well here. Only Captain O’Hagan seemed at ease: he should be the star of her guidance!

The head-waiter returning, the Captain assisted mademoiselle to endue her leopard-skin cloak.

Brandon’s fists clenched and re-opened convulsively.

“Yvette!” He almost choked. “You are not going away?—not going to leave me here—a laughing-stock——”

“Mr. Ronald Brandon!” O’Hagan placed his arm protectingly about mademoiselle’s shoulders and stared through the monocle at the novelist’s pale face. “I do not approve of this lady’s being in your company!”

Brandon fell back (O’Hagan’s divine audacity can strike as a physical blow) into the arms of Mr. Dewson.

“Stick to your part!” hissed the latter in his ear; and held him firmly. “This is a treat! All the restaurant heard what he said! Heard your name, too!”

“Curse you! Let go!”

The veins swelled upon Brandon’s forehead; his eyes protruded.

Captain O’Hagan, serenely:

“Come, mademoiselle! This vulgar brawler is no fit companion for us!”

Half the guests were upon their feet now. Someone had gone for the manager. The horror-frozen head-waiter met the Gorgon gaze which hypnotically sought him through the pebble. He turned and swung wide the door.

Brandon made a savage leap. Dewson grabbed his coat tails.

Mademoiselle, trembling slightly, having quitted the room, O’Hagan turned, and tossed his card at Brandon’s feet.

“You may care further to discuss the matter at some future time,” he said coldly. “I am otherwise engaged this evening!”

Brandon broke loose at that, but collided with the head-waiter, who began to feel faint. A tremendous buzz of conversation arose. Above it sounded the shrill note of a whistle. O’Hagan, without, had ordered a taxi. Then someone laughed—a pressman there for the “story.”

The novelist whisked around upon the detaining Mr. Dewson.

“Curse you and your ‘boosts’!” he snarled. “You’ve made me the laughing-stock of London! I’ll kill that damned O’Hagan!”

“Good business!” said the press agent. “Do it. Double our sales!”

—————