I.
HAVERLEY OF THE GREYS.

My friend Captain O’Hagan is a man fatally easy to misjudge; a man monstrously difficult to appreciate. Arraign him before a bar of his peers, and no two findings would march in step, no two voices be in unison. If we except the critic of the Tailor and Cutter, I doubt, indeed, if there be a man in London who perceives the exquisite distinction of O’Hagan’s dress. His mode of going hatless is dubbed affectation; his purple-lined cloak an ostentatious extravagance.

But some there are who instinctively detect O’Hagan’s sterling qualities; some (as myself) achieve to this knowledge; and some have it thrust upon them.

I recall an illustrative incident:

O’Hagan and I were at one of those pleasant afternoon functions where the caller surreptitiously, but constantly, glances at his timepiece in order to learn if a sufficient interval has elapsed since his arrival to admit of his departure. You have been, no doubt? O’Hagan rarely goes; but a Miss Pamela Crichton was present on this occasion—and, somehow, O’Hagan and I are frequently meeting this charming girl at all sorts of odd places—quite by accident, oh, quite by accident.

“I am proud of the success which Pamela has achieved,” my friend whispered to me, “since I took her up.” (She composes). “But I do not approve of her accepting these social invitations. She is merely providing the hostess with a gratuitous entertainment.”

This view of the matter, from O’Hagan, surprised me. But later, the hostess said:

“Dear Miss Crichton, you will play us that last charming piece of yours, won’t you!”

Mrs. Pointzby-North’s request was sweetly proffered, but it was a sweetness akin to that with which, addressing a valued butler, she might have said:

“Milton, you will see that the bull-dogs are not permitted to fight in the drawing-room in future, won’t you!”

O’Hagan did not object to the tone of patronage, however. (“Mrs. Pointzby-North,” said he, “is a member of a very old and distinguished family.” That, of course, was final.)

But when Pamela began to play, delightfully, and everyone continued to chatter, simianly, he stood up.

“Rank has its obligations,” he said—and strode across to the player.

He took both her hands, and the flow of melody ceased upon an unexpected discord. Then came silence—the thrilling silence of surprise. Lolling gracefully upon the baby grand, my friend toyed with the black ribbon upon which his monocle dangles and glanced toward Mrs. Pointzby-North.

“My dear Mrs. North, as a very old and quite absurdly privileged friend, might I address a few words to everybody, without annoyance to you?”

Mrs. Pointzby-North, fluttering somewhat:

“My dear Captain O’Hagan! As if you could offend me, however hard you tried!”

O’Hagan inclined his head, and raised the monocle to survey the expectant ring of guests. Then:

“Good folks, Miss Pamela Crichton is so well worth listening to, that I beg you will preserve a perfect quiet whilst she is playing. Believe me, you will be well repaid, and will furthermore confer upon Mrs. North and upon myself a favour which we shall deeply appreciate!”

Pamela performed amid a throbbing silence which would have gratified Sarah Bernhardt. But I divined how in future the doors of Mrs. Pointzby-North would be closed to Miss Crichton.

(“It is better,” O’Hagan explained to me, when we had seen the girl to a cab. “I do not desire that Pamela be treated as a public exhibit.”)

Replace the famous cloak with a toga, and in O’Hagan you have a very complete patrician—an aristocrat of sensibilities so exquisite that the trifling errors of good society jar upon them more harshly than the eating of peas with a knife upon the atrophied perceptions of the merely respectable.

After dinner that evening Sir Roger Rundel called upon O’Hagan in his chambers.

My friend’s chambers overlook Whitehall, and, in his moments of ease, he is always to be found in the room which he calls his library, but whose appointments more nearly correspond with those of a harêm. To visitors but superficially acquainted with O’Hagan, this apartment proves a surprise. Its arabesques dimly perceptible in the blue rays of a hanging lamp, the plash of water in a tiny marble basin enhancing the illusion that one has lost one’s way, this mandarah possesses all the charms of the unexpected.

For golden carp in the basin you are of course prepared? Prepare, further, for O’Hagan in a loose blue robe, O’Hagan extended upon a cushioned divan, sipping coffee from a tiny porcelain cup and enjoying the solace of tumbâk in a Persian narghli.

Donohue, a model man, immaculate, in immaculate black, proclaimed the arrival, and ushered in the person, of Sir Roger. You would like Sir Roger Rundel; bronzed, well groomed, reserved, forty-five; he is what we mean by a typical English gentleman.

He and O’Hagan are old friends. Donohue made fresh kahweh (no one expects whisky in the mandarah), whilst Sir Roger selected from the rack an amber mouthpiece neatly labelled “R.R.” and appropriated the guest’s tube of the narghli.

O’Hagan: “Been hoping to see you every day since I heard of your return, Rundel.”

Sir Roger: “Yes, yes. Since my—marriage, fear I’ve neglected bachelor friends. I leave London to-night—on departmental business.”

Silence; broken by bubbling of narghli. Enter Donohue with coffee. Exit Donohue.

O’Hagan fumbled for the indispensable pebble, found it, and examined Sir Roger’s face critically.

“There’s a fly in the ointment, Rundel. Name the brute’s species.”

Sir Roger put down his cup with a rattle.

“Captain Haverley,” he snapped—“and now I’ve said it!”

“Ah,” mused O’Hagan; “Haverley, of the —th Greys. Only know him by repute.”

“What sort of repute?” growled Rundel.

“Yes,” O’Hagan nodded, and dropped his monocle. “That sort!”

Sir Roger got upon his feet, and began to pace up and down a square of Persian carpet.

“We know one another, O’Hagan. There’s not another man in England I’d confide in. But—well—Beesley told me about this afternoon—at Mrs. Pointzby-North’s, and I said, ‘Same old O’Hagan!’ That’s what it is, O’Hagan: there’s only one of you—only one of you! This—friendship—between my wife and Haverley is nothing—from Val’s point of view. Understand? She means no harm.”

“What attitude have you adopted?”

“No attitude. Overlooked it. But I’m going away; and I will not have Val talked about, and I will not be made to look ridiculous. In a word, O’Hagan, I’ll have no damned cavalière servante with Haverley’s reputation dangling after my wife!”

“Well?” said O’Hagan, calmly sipping coffee.

“Val’s younger than me; and I don’t want her to think that I think—see what I mean? I can’t speak to her.”

“I follow you perfectly,” said O’Hagan. “You can speak to neither party without the risk of precipitating what you wish to avoid. Thanks for entrusting this matter to me, Rundel. I will call out Captain Haverley to-morrow morning!”

“My dear fellow! never do at all!”

“Why? I should see to it that he remained incapacitated in France throughout the term of your absence!”

“Too medieval, O’Hagan—too dam’ medieval. Bar you the country for twelve months at least! Besides, he might refuse—or, worse, you might kill him!”

“True,” agreed O’Hagan; “such mistakes have occurred. However—if Captain Haverley is not permitted the society of Lady Rundel during your absence, I take it that you will be satisfied?”

“Certainly! certainly! If I knew that——”

“Rely upon it, Rundel,” said O’Hagan, rising. “I will put an end to this undesirable intimacy. I shall regard it as my sacred duty to do so!”

In that moment he was superb; a man worthy of the confidence of kings; a man to hold stainless the honour of a queen.

“My dear fellow!” said Sir Roger, and shook his hand furiously. “My dear, dear fellow!”

Ah! what a privilege it is to call Bernard O’Hagan your friend!

—————

II.
ACCORDING TO MYUKU.

Captain Haverley placed upon a table beside him the card of Captain The Hon. Bernard O’Hagan, V.C., D.S.O., as that distinguished officer was shown in.

“Of course I have heard of you, Captain O’Hagan,” he said; “but this is our first meeting, I think?” He glanced at his watch. “Better late than never!”

O’Hagan bowed coldly.

“I was about to refer to my calling upon you at this late hour,” he explained; “but since you have so rudely anticipated me, an apology becomes unnecessary. I will merely state my business.”

Haverley, a blonde and arrogantly handsome man at whose breast Eros aimed his darts every time that he went into a drawing-room, and at whose back fifty per cent, of his company were sworn to aim their rifles the first time that he went into action, believed that he had misunderstood O’Hagan. But:

“In short,” continued the latter, swinging his monocle, “your friendship with Lady Rundel must cease. It will be evident to you that in her husband’s absence its continuance would be compromising.”

Haverley knew, then, that he had heard aright, and his face paled with an anger which was intense; his hazel eyes seemed to emit sparks; and he slowly moved nearer to this adept in polished insult.

“Captain O’Hagan,” he said, distinctly—“the door is immediately behind you.”

“A matter of more pressing import,” replied O’Hagan icily, “is immediately in front of me.”

With three swinging strides he crossed to the mantelpiece. It was decorated with several women’s photographs—among them, one of Lady Rundel. Snatching it, framed as it was, from its place, he broke it across his knee and hurled the fragments into the hearth!

At that, Haverley leapt. Calculating with a boxer’s cunning the exact instant when his man would turn, he launched a blow for the angle of his jaw. The primitive, strong within him, ruled now supreme. But O’Hagan did not turn.

He stepped back upon Haverley, and stooped.

It is needless to quote the apposite precept of Shashu Myuku of Nagasaki (Dean of the College of Higher Jiu-jitsu) in order to make clear what happened. Haverley performed a complete somersault over O’Hagan’s arched back and fell, heaped up, crashing in the hearth.

Captain O’Hagan stepped to the door, and gained it as Haverley’s man hurriedly entered.

“You understand?” said O’Hagan. “I forbid you this lady’s company. If you dispute my right to do so, I shall expect your friends in the morning.”

Haverley, choking, shaken, got upon his feet. His white-faced man barred the door.

“Excuse me, sir . . .”

O’Hagan brushed him aside. He has a sweeping motion of the left arm which would remove a lifeguardsman from his path as effectively as the flick of a handkerchief brushes a fly from a bald head.

The man clutched at a buhl cabinet to save himself. Upon a discordant finale of smashing porcelain, intermingled with human cursing, Captain O’Hagan made his exit to the plaudit of the gods.

He is a master of effective curtains.

—————

III.
INTRODUCING DONOHUE.

I have hinted, I think, that my friend disapproves of many usages of modern society. He maintains that it is in no sense representative of the true aristocracy. (“I have known a knight, Raymond,” he says “who avoided eating water-melon because it made his ears wet.”) This anecdote I take to be more properly a parable; but it serves to illustrate a phase of O’Hagan’s character.

He would have the feminine section of society composed wholly of Cæsar’ wives. How he reconciles this view with the career of the fair O’Hagan who embellished a Stuart Court held at Hampton, I am too diffident to inquire though curious to know.

His espousal of the righteous cause of Sir Roger Rundel was in every sense a love-match. What advice should you have offered to Sir Roger? At best your aid had ceased with words, I dare to predict. But from the first traceable O’Hagan (some kind of pirate, I believe) to Bernard, the O’Hagans essentially figure as men of action, often as not of sanguinary action. We are agreed, then, that you and I are not of the kidney properly to conduct this affair? Your attention for Captain Bernard O’Hagan!

No communication from Haverley reached him during the following morning. (“I have since taken occasion to look up the fellow’s pedigree,” O’Hagan informed me; “and the fortunes of the family apparently date from a certain pork butcher by letters patent to George III. One can understand a lack of finesse in a scion of sausage-mongers. God help the Army!”)

Noon, and after, saw my friend engaged upon affairs of his own. But in the evening Donohue reported in the mandarah.

This remarkable man is worthy of a brief inspection.

In figure he is sturdy, of no more than medium height. He has well-brushed hair of the colour of stale mustard, and a ruddy complexion. Clean-shaven, his upper lip usurps an undue share of his countenance, and his jaw would spell truculence were its significance not modified by the humorous twinkle in the sky-blue eyes.

Behold Donohue, a man of attainments; a valet unsurpassable, of eye more true for the fold of a cloak than any modiste of the Rue de la Paix; a colourist in whom discord between a scarf and a soft shirt produces a blanching of the cheek; who, of a hundred waistcoats, having a hundred shades, will unerringly select the waistcoat for the occasion. He has other qualities, to be displayed later.

Donohue: “Sir.”

“Well, Donohue?”—O’Hagan.

“Captain Haverley, with Lady Rundel at Folly Theatre; stalls; Row B; numbers 6 and 7.”

“Very good.”

Exit Donohue.

This paragon must have delighted the gloomy soul of Athos.

Bernard O’Hagan, having finished his coffee, discarded the loose robe for the purple-lined cloak, pulled on his gloves, and sallied forth into Whitehall, cloak flying, holding his cane like an Italian rapier, and generally comporting himself as some Buckingham bound for St. James’s.

He turned his steps in the direction of the Folly, however. To the box-office clerk:

“I require a stall.”

“We have only three vacant, sir.”

“One will be sufficient.”

No traffic of the stage that evening had created anything approximating to the impression occasioned by O’Hagan’s entrance. My friend has been called a poseur. It is unjust. He cannot help it. Bernard O’Hagan belongs to the age of plumes and velvet. His is the soul of a true courtier.

Just within the big glass door he paused for a moment, and, the monocle glittering as he held it before his right eye, studied the occupants of Row B. Perceiving Lady Rundel (a conspicuously pretty woman) staring at him fascinatedly, he bowed. A hundred sighs arose; a hundred hearts lay unheeded at the feet of this incomparable cavalier.

Haverley devoted his attention exclusively to the stage. He was gnawing his moustache.

Throughout the performance, O’Hagan lolled back in his stall, one leg negligently thrown across the other, and studied the ladies, who constitute the principal attraction of this house, with a kind of bored curiosity.

At the close of the play Lady Rundel and Captain Haverley stood in the lobby. O’Hagan bowed low before madame. Then, to her squire:

“I believe I forbade you this lady’s society, sir?” said he.

There are simple remarks which, at certain times, you or I might make, but which you and I lack the stark audacity to make. Made, they strike the listener with a species of paralysis. This was one of them.

Lady Rundel flushed, and started back.

“Captain O’Hagan!” she began——

“Don’t speak to him, Lady Rundel!” came hissing, forced speech from Haverley. “Allow me to see you to your car. I have something very particular to say to Captain O’Hagan!”

O’Hagan bowed again inimitably.

“Good-night, Lady Rundel. I have something very particular to say to you in the morning.”

Captain O’Hagan sank reposefully into a lounge, and, the observed of everyone who passed out of the theatre, awaited Haverley’s return. At least a score of ladies inquired sotto voce of their escorts: “Who is that distinguished-looking man?”

Haverley presently returned, forcing his way roughly against the thinning stream of supper-seekers. Over the heads of the outgoing, O’Hagan perceived the drawn face and angry, blazing eyes. He turned his glass casually in that direction.

Quivering before him, Haverley said, with hardly repressed violence:

“You are a blackguard! I have little doubt that a public brawl would be to your low taste. But I prefer to call upon you to-morrow. I shall bring a horse-whip!” Unable further to trust himself to face the icy stare which met him, he turned, and almost ran from the now empty lobby.

Captain O’Hagan swung streetward, in turn. A taxi-cab had at that moment pulled up to the kerb; and Haverley was fumbling with shaking fingers for a coin for the theatre attendant, ere entering it.

O’Hagan calmly opened the door, stepped in, and reclosed it. Leaning from the window:

“Junior Guards Club!” he said. “Half a sovereign if you do it in four minutes!”

Gold is a talisman, my masters. The taxi-driver risked consequences—and started.

(“You see,” goes O’Hagan’s explanation of this episode, “the cab was the last in the rank, and I had an appointment. Haverley may have had one also. But pedigree before pork, Raymond.”)

—————

IV.
DONOHUE’S ORDERS.

The morning was young, and O’Hagan discussing rolls and coffee when Donohue announced Captain Haverley and Mr. Salter.

O’Hagan rose ceremoniously. He wore a slate-grey lounge suit, with a silver-grey plush French knot in lieu of a tie. This combination suits him admirably and affords Donohue great scope for discrimination in the selecting of a soft shirt to harmonise with the scheme.

Entered Haverley, accompanied by a tall and preternaturally thin gentleman who carried, a leather case. O’Hagan bowed coldly to the captain, and upon his companion turned the monocle.

“This,” he said frigidly, sweeping his hand toward Mr. Salter, “I assume to be your horse-whip?”

“Mr. Salter is my solicitor!” replied Haverley loudly. “I have decided that a public exposure is what you require! We have therefore——”

(O’Hagan pressed a bell.)

“—I say we have therefore called formally to advise you——”

(Donohue entered.)

“—That a police-court summons for drunken assault and——”

O’Hagan, waving monocle Salterward:

“Donohue, kindly see this person to the door.”

Mr. Salter, who was opening his brief-case looked up alarmedly.

“My solicitor,” shouted Haverley, who was rapidly losing control of himself, “is——”

“Donohue!”

Donohue bowed to Mr. Salter and held wide the door.

Salter: “Captain O’Hagan, as legal adviser——”

“Donohue!”

Donohue stepped forward and took up Mr. Salter’s case. Within his right arm he linked the left of Mr. Salter, and with the gentle firmness of a Milo of Crotona led him rapidly from the room. Came a quavering cry:

“You will pay dearly for this insult!”

Haverley, eyes aflame, bounded to the door. It was locked. He turned to where O’Hagan, lolling against the mantelpiece, studied the morning’s manœuvres through upraised glass.

“I do not,” explained O’Hagan icily, “allow solicitors in these chambers.”

Haverley leant back against the door, almost as though he were preparing for a spring. He was a man swept by a tornado of passion, and before its force he quivered and shook.

“The law is the weapon of churls,” continued O’Hagan. “You are a soldier—as I regret to remind you. Upon the table on your right are French foils, Italian rapiers, and three types of sabre. You clearly maintain your right to Lady Rundel’s society. I forbid you to see her again. We will settle the point.”

Haverley cleared his throat, and spoke huskily:

“You are a madman—and I will see that you are treated as such——”

“Before we commence,” added O’Hagan, taking up a writing-block, “we will each write a note to the effect that we were practising a new mode of mounted attack, and that the affair was an accident. One of these notes will afterwards be destroyed.”

“Open the door!” demanded Haverley, tensely.

Captain O’Hagan observed him with a kind of unpleasant curiosity.

“As a soldier, and as a gentleman, you cannot refuse, of course!”

“Open that door! Do you hear me? You are mad!”

O’Hagan swung the monocle, and smiled upon the rapidly-breathing Haverley with undisguised contempt.

“Captain Haverley,” he said, “Sir Roger Rundel is my friend; and whilst I live, any gay Lothario who seeks to gratify his vanity by compromising my friend’s wife shall find at least one obstacle in his path. You will either hand me a written undertaking to secure a transfer to the 5th, vice Captain Macklin, invalided—leaving for Burma on the 19th—or remove that obstacle. You quit this room upon no other condition.”

“Open the door!” roared Haverley, clenching his fists and grinding his teeth with animal fury. “Open the door! By God! I’ll clap you in custody before another hour has passed!”

“If you decline,” said O’Hagan, coldly, “I will ring for the door to be opened as you desire——”

Haverley drummed his right fist into the palm of his left hand and stamped upon the floor with his foot. He was literally gasping in his fury.

“—In order,” resumed the chilly voice, “that my man may thrash you. I offer you, for the last time, the satisfaction of a gentleman——”

“Damn your impudent speeches! Open the door!”

Captain O’Hagan pressed the bell.

The door opened so suddenly and violently as to precipitate Haverley forward into the room. He recovered himself, turned, and sprang with a cry upon Donohue.

(“Donohue,” O’Hagan has informed me, “is not of course an adept of the Higher Arts of Jiu-Jitsu; but he has a pleasing proficiency in the more ordinary holds and falls.”)

Donohue, then, met the attack in a novel way. He received Captain Haverley in a loving embrace. Then, like a teetotum, Haverley was spun right-about, and held, purple-faced, eyes starting hideously, with his arms locked behind him by the human manacle of Donohue’s iron grip.

Donohue: “Yes, sir?”

“You have your instructions, Donohue,” said O’Hagan—and passing the inarticulate Haverley, strode out of the room.

—————

V.
REVELATIONS.

“The worse a man’s reputation,” Bernard O’Hagan holds, “the more the women like him. In French comedy we find the jealous husband held up to ridicule—hence the superiority of the lover. Failing the sword, Ridicule, my boy, is the weapon to cut short the career of Gallantry.”

Remembering this, let us accompany Captain O’Hagan to Lady Rundel’s.

He was admitted. Following upon such an affair as that of the previous evening, it is more than doubtful if another had enjoyed the privilege of admission. But Bernard O’Hagan is unused to refusals.

Lady Rundel received him with studied coldness. He bent low over her hand in his remote, courtly fashion.

“I have an explanation to offer of my conduct of last night,” he explained blandly.

“I am curious to hear it!”

“That I do not doubt, Lady Rundel; for you must have perceived that I strongly disapproved of the man Haverley!”

She was caressing a miniature dog, but at that she glanced up, flushing.

“It is a pity,” she began——

“It is!” agreed O’Hagan, toying with his monocle. “It is indeed a thousand pities, for you are such a charmingly pretty woman!”

“Captain O’Hagan! I fail to understand you!” But her eyes were less angry than her tones. “You presume too far, even for so old a friend, when you attempt to control my choice of acquaintances!”

“Dear Lady Rundel”—he bent forward and patted her hand soothingly—“it annoyed me so deeply (you know how acutely sensitive I am) to hear people laughing!”

“Laughing?”

Lady Rundel met his eyes interrogatively.

“I felt that the position was so very undignified. Sir Roger——”

“Captain O’Hagan—are you insinuating that people are laughing at my husband That——”

“At your husband! At Sir Roger!” O’Hagan stared amazedly through the pebble. “No one would dare to laugh at Sir Roger Rundel, believe me!”

A far-away look came into Lady Rundel’s eyes at these words. O’Hagan was glad to see that look; glad for Sir Roger’s sake. He knew, then, that his curious duty was almost accomplished—that Captain Haverley was merely a passing amusement.

Lady Rundel rose slowly from her chair. O’Hagan observed her slim figure with smiling, aesthetic appreciation. She walked across to a small table, glancing at some trifle which it bore—and turned, leaning back upon the table-edge.

“What do you mean, then?” she asked. “At whom are they laughing?”

O’Hagan shrugged his shoulders with feigned embarrassment.

“A man who has been tarred and feathered,” he began——

“Tarred and feathered!” Her eyes were opened widely. “Captain O’Hagan! Whatever do you mean?”

“—Casts ridicule upon any woman who consents to be seen in his company!”

“Captain O’Hagan, be so good as to explain yourself!”

O’Hagan raised his monocle.

“What! you did not know—about Haverley?”

“Frankly, I cannot believe it!” she cried, flushing deeply. “I am sure—I am almost certain—that Captain Haverley would not submit to such an indignity from any man!”

“It is an indignity, is it not?” he said, confidentially.

“Oh! I cannot believe it! And it is known?”

“That is the singular part of the thing! I have never been able to understand why Haverley did not remain abroad. It was my scamp, Donohue, who perpetrated the outrage!”

“Your man! Your man tarred and feathered Captain Haverley?”

“He did, the rogue! I would have discharged the fellow, but he is the only man in England who knows how to pack dress trousers in a suit-case!”

Lady Rundel was watching O’Hagan. When he really gets into his stride, my friend’s mendacity is fascinating. He becomes supernormally fluent; his truthless discourse holds one enthralled.

“The car is ready,” she said slowly. “I should like to hear this unsavoury story from the man Donohue himself!”

It was designed for a home thrust, but O’Hagan rose delightedly.

“Dear Lady Rundel,” he said. “By all means You honour me.”

—————

VI.
DONOHUE AGAIN.

Some delay occurred at the door of O’Hagan’s chambers.

“Donohue cannot have gone out,” said he. “How careless of me to have forgotten my key!”

He rang impatiently. Once—twice—thrice. Then the door was opened some three inches and Donohue’s face peered through the aperture.

“Excuse me, sir,” said that treasure, ignoring O’Hagan’s icy stare; “but would you, sir—I don’t ask a favour often—would you come back in half an hour, sir?”

Captain O’Hagan thrust the door open, and swept Donohue against the wall.

“What do you mean?” he demanded fiercely. “Consider yourself discharged, Donohue! What . . .”

An uproarious banging and shouting drowned further speech. Lady Rundel clearly was afraid to enter. Donohue shrank away before the fierce glare which sought him through the pebble.

“Donahue!”—portentously.

“Sir!”

“What is that unseemly disturbance proceeding from the store-room?”

Donohue, with great hesitancy:

“I’m sorry, sir! You can discharge me if you like—excuse me, sir, you have! But he came here calling you such dirty names, sir, and—excuse me, m’lady—said things about her ladyship!——”

“Donohue!” interrupted O’Hagan, in a voice of freezing calm—“unlock the store-room door!”

“Sir——”

“Donohue! unlock the store-room door! Then pack your box.”

Donohue, with a sort of badly veiled truculence—(“I have always distrusted that man!” whispered Lady Rundel)—walked to and unlocked the door indicated.

Whereupon Lady Rundel uttered a stifled shriek.

For out into view leapt a nightmare apparition—a man who had sky-blue hair and only half a moustache! Furthermore, that surviving half was grass-green!

“Come out, you piebald spalpeen!” cried Donohue, throwing restraint to the winds—“come out and show what I’ve done to you!”

Lady Rundel slowly raised her hands to her face.

“Heavens!” she said, in a smothered voice, “it is Bobby Haverley! Captain O’Hagan, your man must be given in char. . . .”

Her voice trailed off into a suppressed ripple.

“Lady Rundel!” shouted Haverley frantically—“This is a conspiracy! I have been lashed to a chair——”

But Lady Rundel already was half way down the stairs, and her laughter, no longer to be denied, came back in mocking answer. O’Hagan stood in the doorway, monocle raised Haverley, by a tremendous effort, regained control of himself.

“Captain O’Hagan,” he said, his voice grating harshly, “you will be in jail to-morrow.”

“Possibly,” replied O’Hagan; “but let us survey the facts. If you care to give me the written undertaking to which I referred—merely a matter of form, now—you may enjoy the use of the hot and cold water in my bathroom. The dye will wash out. I will even lend you a razor. If you decline, you are at liberty to depart into Whitehall—as you are! Finally, Donohue has taken your photograph! You did so, Donohue?”

Donohue: “I did, sir.”

“It will, of course, be reproduced in the press during the course of the case. The bathroom is on your immediate left.”

Is it necessary to pursue this matter further? I think not. O’Hagan has not been prosecuted. He never will be, I fancy. Recently, he related to Lady Rundel the true facts of the affair; and I thought that she would have never ceased laughing.

Captain Bernard O’Hagan’s policy is, Do it hard, and face the music. One sighs for a ministry of O’Hagans.

I.
WE MEET THE DUKE.

The character of my friend Bernard O’Hagan is a maze within a maze, a dædalian labyrinth, to the heart whereof I long since have despaired of penetrating. His sense of humour is acute, but peculiar. A man, he declares, who cannot laugh at Mark Twain is a man from whose soul the joy of life has departed. Yet his idea of bliss would seem to be existence in a Persian rose-garden with some few congenial spirits, and, for attendants, only Greek youths and maidens of flawless classic beauty.

Grotesque anomaly! For I defy any philosopher to reconcile the ideals of Petronius Arbiter, Omar, and Samuel Clemens!

“Alas, O’Hagan,” I say, “this world of ours is a grey place.”

But he turns to me in surprise, monocle raised, and studies my face with a certain apprehension.

“How can you say so, Raymond? Have I not repeatedly demonstrated that Romance lurks in hiding amid the most prosaic surroundings? Adventure, my boy, is for the adventurous! It is only the blind who deny the existence of fauns. I will undertake to find you a nymph in any wood. Villains profound as the darkest dreams of Tolstoy regularly take tea in the drawing-rooms of Mayfair; heroes loftier than Charlemagne jostle one in the Strand!”

Potential Cleopatras and Trojan Helens, I take it, abound in London. Only lacking is that clash of Circumstance and the Man, which, in history, has cast up such wondrous beings.

As I glance at my picturesque friend, head aloft, purple-lined cloak swung well back, and note the air of smiling defiance wherewith he faces the world, I perceive the Man, and with pleasurable anticipation await the Circumstance. I shall always remember one conversation of this kind, for the reason that it directly preceded our meeting with the Grand Duke.

We had just quitted the theatre. My proposal in reference to supper had discovered the interesting circumstance that our joint capital equalled three-and-nine.

“Had you come out without money,” said O’Hagan, “I should not have been surprised. Had I come out without money I should not have been surprised. But for us both, on the same evening, to do so, reveals the finger of Fate.”

O’Hagan, as he stood with one half of his face and figure lighted up by the glare of the theatre lamps, and the other blacked out in contrasting shadow, bore a resemblance rather more marked than usual to the Monarch of merry memory. Withal, he looked strikingly handsome. He is the only man of my acquaintance who can successfully wear a flowing, black dress tie.

Captain Bernard O’Hagan is a figure unforgettable.

“Well?” I said, impatiently watching the theatre-goers driving supperward. “Shall we have something at the club?”

“No, Raymond,” replied my friend, reflectively. “That would be capitulating. Is it possible that two honourable gentlemen, chancing to be without half a sovereign or so, are forced to sup on credit? I recall an episode in the career of my ancestor, Patrick.”

He is fond of recounting episodes in the career of this ancestor, Patrick—some time of the Musketeers of Louis XIII.—a gentleman who would seem to have been chiefly notable for suave ruffianism.

The nature of the episode I was not destined to learn, however, at the time; for as O’Hagan lighted a cigarette, a block in the traffic occurred at the corner of Wellington Street (do not misunderstand me to mean that the incidents were correlative); and a handsome limousine was held up immediately in front of us. The interior was brilliantly illuminated, and a gentleman who lounged upon the fawn-coloured cushions glanced curiously in our direction.

This gentleman, the sole occupant, was distinguished by fiery moustachios and a squarely trimmed beard. My association with what O’Hagan terms “the lower journalism” has familiarised me with the faces of notabilities.

“That is the Grand Duke John of Siresia,” I volunteered, idly.

“So it is,” said O’Hagan with lively interest. “So it is!”

And ere I could say another word he had stepped to the door of the car, opened it, and engaged the distinguished foreigner in conversation!

Whilst I knew O’Hagan’s visiting-list to be extensive and peculiar, I hitherto had been unaware that he was acquainted with the Siresian autocrat. His action took me completely by surprise. Then, just as the policeman ahead released the pent-up traffic, my friend turned and beckoned to me.

Full of a great wonder, I joined him at the open door.

“Get in, Raymond!” he directed briefly, and thrust me, speechless with astonishment, into a seat opposite the great personage.

The chauffeur glanced back. The footman leapt down and came to the step. As in a dream, I heard rapid, guttural instructions. The footman saluted and leapt to his place. The car moved smoothly onward.

O’Hagan raised his monocle, gazing at the bearded nobleman; then waved it gracefully in my direction.

“You may not have met my friend, Mr. Lawrence Raymond,” he said, with the lordly condescension which he, alone, knows how to assume. “Raymond—His Highness the Grand Duke John of Siresia!”

—————

II.
WE IMPROVE THE ACQUAINTANCE.

O’Hagan’s friendship is a passport from the commonplace to the amazing. In acknowledgment of this off-handed introduction I bowed, and was mute. The Grand Duke nodded. His eyes constantly sought my nonchalant friend.

“How fortunate,” said the latter smoothly, “that the traffic chanced to be delayed.”

Bewildered, utterly, I acquitted myself of an ambiguous nod.

“Where are they?” asked the Grand Duke suddenly. His delivery was thick, unmusical.

“If you will be good enough to glance rearward,” replied O’Hagan, “you will perceive a car which is following closely!”

We were, at that moment, turning around by Trafalgar Square; so that this prediction impressed me as being a peculiarly safe one. The Grand Duke, however, peering through a little window at the back, turned again to O’Hagan with palpable uneasiness. His heavy, dull features marked him a man of bulldog tenacity and autocratic stupidity.

“A green car?” he inquired.

O’Hagan, twisting about one finger the black ribbon attached to his monocle, inclined his head gravely. The tone of the Grand Duke’s query had been peremptory—that of one accustomed to command and to be slavishly obeyed. My friend’s mode of reply—the graceful and dignified inclination of the head, the lowering of the eyelids—had subtly defined, and with exquisite artistry, his attitude toward the Grand Duke.

In that simple inclination he had conveyed: “Duke”—(it were impossible to imagine O’Hagan addressing any man breathing as “Your Highness”)—“Duke, you are in the company of a gentleman at present amicably disposed toward you, but of a gentleman who would as promptly tweak your nose, should you forget what is due to him, as he would tweak any other.”

It was a silent declaration of aristocracy, typically and peculiarly O’Haganish.

A faint shade of difference crept into the Grand Duke’s voice. I doubt if the man has lived, since Napoleon Buonaparte, who, meeting Captain the Honble. Bernard O’Hagan, could have escaped enmeshment within his catholic patronage. O’Hagan would patronize the shade of Julius Cæsar.

“What,” inquired the Grand Duke awkwardly, “do you propose?”

“First,” said my friend, holding his monocle between second and third fingers, and waving it roofward, “extinguish these interior lights. It was most indiscreet to travel so publicly.”

Association with Bernard O’Hagan renders one more or less accustomed to the outre. The amazing ceases to amaze, the appalling to appal; wonders lose their potency, and one’s pulse remains normal amid singular adventures.

It afforded me small surprise to see my friend’s injunction instantly obeyed. (It would afford me small surprise to see the Premier blacking O’Hagan’s boots.)

“Next,” continued the Captain, “direct your man to drive to your embassy.”

The obedient Grand Duke bent forward and called gutturally into the tube.

(“There is one thing,” O’Hagan tells me, “which a nobleman of the Grand Duke’s race can never appreciate—the doctrine of aristocratic equality. He must always dominate or be dominated. My ancestor, Patrick, had this from the lips of Cardinal Richelieu—a singularly shrewd observer, Raymond, and a gentleman.”)

“I have no intention,” resumed the Grand Duke, “of handing them over to the ambassador.”

O’Hagan shrugged his shoulders impatiently, turning his eye-glass upon the speaker with the air of a wise man weary of folly.

“Will you allow me to advise?” he said, with a certain disdain. “Do they know that?”

“They cannot possibly,” replied the other. “It is what they most fear—eh?”

“Very well, then,” drawled O’Hagan, yawning discreetly under cover of a gloved hand, “they will abandon the pursuit and no attempt will be made upon your private apartments.”

“I do not fear their attempts!” growled the Grand Duke, with truculent contempt.

“My good Duke!” said O’Hagan languidly—“my dear Duke—do you wish every paper in Europe to discuss your affairs? Do you wish all the world to hear of an attempt to burgle your rooms?”

“What! do you think they would dare?”

Captain O’Hagan surveyed him, pebble uplifted, as one surveys a surpassing fool.

“Dare!” he said icily. “Dare! My good, dear Duke—where is your common sense?”

(“That expression marked the psychological moment, Raymond,” he later was good enough to inform me. “I was deliberately tightening the screw. If he submitted. I knew that the man was mine.”)

The Grand Duke glared for a moment. Then:

“No; you are right!” he agreed, grudgingly.

Bernard O’Hagan would be a dazzling ornament to the diplomatic service. One can imagine his prevailing upon the united monarchies of Europe to present a fleet of dreadnoughts to Great Britain as a little token of esteem.

Is it necessary, by the way, that I mention here how all this extraordinary conversation was so much Sanscrit to me? I think not. I perceived no gleam of light through the darkness. I was a man in a tunnel leading he knows not whither, surrounded by he knows not what.

My bewildered surmisings had come to a hazy meridian, I think, when the car drew up before the embassadorial residence.

“If he is at home, what excuse shall I make for my call?” asked the Grand Duke.

“Any excuse!” said O’Hagan drily. “You may profess to have heard rumours that he is troubled with a return of his gout——”

“He has no gout!”

“His wife’s gout, then! Anything—anything!”

Grunting uncouthly, the Grand Duke alighted and disappeared in the darkness. Coincident with the footman’s reclosure of the door, burst forth my dammed up torrent of queries.

“Ssh!” O’Hagan raised his hand. “I will explain later, Raymond. Exhibit no surprise. Merely agree with me—tacitly agree!”

“But where did——”

“Ssh!”—impatiently. “These servants are spies!”

I felt curiously like a screw-stoppered bottle of some highly aerated mineral, which has been partially unscrewed. Questions literally sizzled from me. But I must perforce contain myself; and we were presently rejoined by the Grand Duke. He glanced up and down the street ere entering. Giving a brief order to the man:

“Where are they?” he growled, as he took his seat.

“They have left their car,” replied my friend; “but two of them are in hiding near the corner.”

“Do you know either of these?”

“He is one!” said O’Hagan impressively.

“Whom?” snapped the Grand Duke.

Now, Captain O’Hagan is rarely at a loss for the right word at the right time. He holds it churlish to stammer and stutter, and wholly inconsistent with that grand manner of which, if I be not mistaken, he is the only surviving master. Yet, now, he seemed somewhat taken aback. Later, I understood why. But——

“Need you ask?” he returned, with very brief hesitancy.

“Not Leo?” the Grand Duke demanded, hoarsely.

O’Hagan smiled and inclined his head.

The Siresian nobleman struck his huge fist into the palm of his hand, furiously. He was a truly formidable man.

“Curse him ten thousand times!” he shouted, wildly. “How has he found out that I have them?”

“I fear you have been indiscreet, Duke,” murmured O’Hagan.

“Indiscreet!” roared the Grand Duke. “Not a living soul can have seen me meet Casimir! Ah, but——”

He broke off, evidently struck by a new idea.

“Was he followed?” he demanded.

“I fear so!” gravely answered my friend.

“They—have him?”—jerkily.

“I fear so!”

The Siresian swore, stormily.

“Ah, well,” he concluded. “He was well paid for the risk—poor devil!”

And now we were in the heart of hotel-land. The car drew up before the dazzling portals of the New Louvre. The footman threw open the door and stood rigidly to attention. On the car-step the Grand Duke hesitated, turned, and was delivered of a new idea.

“Now that I have the letters and the photographs, what have I to fear?” he snapped, in an angry voice. “They cannot reach them here! And do they not think that I have delivered them to the embassy?”

O’Hagan placed a gloved finger to his lips, and directed a rapid glance through his monocle toward a hotel servant who stood immediately behind the footman.

“It is good of you to bring us along to supper, Duke!” he cried loudly and breezily. “Fancy running into you at the Folly of all places!”

The Grand Duke accepted the guidance of this accomplished diplomat. In single file we entered the hotel—the nobleman frowning thunderously at the liveried servant silently impeached of espionage by O’Hagan. To a suite of apartments furnished with opulent magnificence we made a stately progress. When, for a few moments, my surprising friend and I found ourselves alone, the mental volcano which raged within me burst into active eruption, casting forth questions in a burning torrent.

O’Hagan, hand raised: “My dear Raymond!”

I talked on, but diminuendo.

O’Hagan, raising monocle: “My dear fellow!”

The querulous torrent died away, poco a poco. Then:

“I had anticipated all your questions, my boy,” said O’Hagan; “and I will deal with them in order. In the first place—No, I am not acquainted with the Grand Duke! I had never seen him in my life until you drew my attention to him outside the Folly! I have no idea what it is that he has secured, and which he evidently apprehends someone is likely to pursue him in order to recover!—letters and photographs, according to his own account. Do not glare in that way, Raymond; it makes you appear cross-eyed!”

To the door I looked hurriedly, and back to my nonchalant friend, who swung his monocle and eyed me with an amused smile. My tongue defied me.

“If you will glance over our conversation, in retrospect,” he continued, “you will perceive that my contributions partook of the nature of leading questions disguised as items of information. In fact, I adopted the tactics of an examining magistrate!

“It all rests upon this, Raymond. At the moment when you said, ‘That is the Grand Duke John,’ you may recall that I was about to recount to you an exploit of my ancestor, Patrick? This exploit, Raymond, was performed before La Rochelle, and involved three of the enemy, a dozen bottles of wine, and a game pie! The Grand Duke is the enemy in this case, my boy. You must be aware that he is one of a group whose activities are inimical to our interests in the Baltic. I saw my way clearly. I stepped up and whispered to him, ‘They are following you, Duke! We will slip into the car, unperceived amid the traffic, and explain more fully. There must be no delay here!’ ”

(I inhaled noisily.)

“This was a bow at venture, Raymond. The odds against my scoring were about ten thousand to one. But—as occurred to a certain Desmond O’Hagan on a somewhat similar occasion—I scored! Given such premises, who after that could err? Although I will confess that I overstepped the mark once; but, thanks to the darkness of the car, and the corresponding darkness prevailing in the Grand Ducal mind, I recovered! I may add, Raymond, that our present position, though one of absorbing interest, is delicate to a degree!”

“O’Hagan!” I broke in hotly, “this is beyond belief! Had I known, had I dreamed, of the false position in which we were placed——”

I ceased. Language failed me again. Then:

“O’Hagan!” I cried, “what have you done it for?”

“Primarily,” he answered, “for supper! After supper I shall offer the Grand Duke any satisfaction which he may desire. Secondarily, here is the Grand Duke!”

Even as he spoke my mind was busy; and, as I now perceived with consternation, O’Hagan had indeed been “pumping” the Grand Duke—“pumping” him with the cleverness of a very accomplished K.C. I was amazed; amazed that the Siresian should have fallen so easy a victim—that even Bernard O’Hagan should have had the stark effrontery to practise such a deception.

“If you will excuse me for a few moments more,” said the Grand Duke, “I will rejoin you for supper.”

With a cold bow, he left us again.

“O’Hagan!” I burst out——

O’Hagan coughed, and raised his monocle to his eye.

“—I will not, cannot stay!——”

O’Hagan coughed again, more urgently, and, across my left shoulder, seemed to focus something through the pebble.

“—The supper would choke me!”

O’Hagan coughed a third time, with bronchial violence, bowed low—as a Leicester before an Elizabeth—and surreptitiously kicked me shrewdly upon the shin.

I spun around sharply. I followed the direction of my friend’s enraptured gaze. And my eyes rested upon one of the loveliest women I have ever seen!

—————