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.