EXPLOIT THE SECOND.

HE CLEARS THE COURSE FOR TRUE

LOVE.

EXPLOIT THE SECOND.

HE CLEARS THE COURSE FOR TRUE LOVE.

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.

—————