“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!
—————
III.
THE MAID AND THE RING.
I call her a woman, but she can have been no more than seventeen or
eighteen, I think. She was one of those dark, supple Siresian girls who
approach so infinitely nearer to one’s ideal houri of the East than any
really Oriental beauty ever can do. Her great black eyes wandered
nervously from O’Hagan’s face to mine.
“Tell me!” she cried, in pretty, broken English—“I saw you whispering
together—tell me! You are from Leo?”
Nipping my arm, O’Hagan bowed again.
“I knew it!” cried the girl joyously. “Something told me!”
Good God! at her words, at sight of the mist of gladness, of gratitude,
clouding her beautiful eyes, I could have kicked myself—I could have
attacked O’Hagan nor counted the cost!
“He is so stupid—the Duke,” she ran on, confidently: “so stupid! He
leaves his coat in there”—she pointed to a distant door—“and
these”—producing a bulky, sealed parcel—“in the pocket!”
Then she laughed joyously. Her eyes, though, brimmed over with tears.
Her credulity amazed me, of course; but not so greatly as one might
suppose. There is something about O’Hagan that women trust implicitly;
and it is something, I contend, which shall be written to his credit in
the greater Doomsday Book—a real grandeur of soul which all his
surprising superficialities cannot wholly mask.
Perceive me, then, at this juncture, a man rendered helpless by warring
emotions, conflicting doubts, fears, and a supreme wonderment.
“Do you think you will be in time?” she pleaded, pressing the packet
into his hands.
“I hope so, mademoiselle!” he replied.
His handsome face was stern. He had dropped his monocle, and, with it, I
thought, somewhat of his flippancy.
“They may think he has turned traitor!” she went on, rapidly: “_he_—who
has given up everything to the Cause! But they will be furious—they
will not reason! Even now, monsieur, they may be condemning him!”
Her use of the word “monsieur” set me wondering. Her voice broke. Her
brave eyes grew dim. And a lump rose in my throat. For I had perceived
the reality of her trouble, and I think I had never felt a more
despicable scoundrel. I thought that, as a man and a gentleman, I truly
was not worth our united three-and-ninepence! What should I do? How
should I act? Thus, miserably, I searched my inert intelligence; then:
“Listen,” began my friend, succinctly—“I cannot go among them, because
I am not one of them! Do not be afraid. I am a true friend to the Cause
and to Leo. But how may I reach him?—where do they meet to-night? And
are you certain that he will be there?”
A shadow—a vague shadow—clouded the girl’s face. Anxiously, intently,
she watched O’Hagan; and this he perceived.
“Mademoiselle,” he said, with a frank pride which is his peculiar
birthright—“it is not possible that you can mistrust my word! Upon my
honour, I will deliver this packet as you direct, and no man shall
hinder me. But you must tell me where they meet, and how I may gain
admittance.”
A moment more she hesitated—searching his face with big, anxious eyes.
Then dawned the light of a great resolution; and I knew that she had
determined to trust to her instincts.
“Here,” she said, hastily pulling a ring from her finger. “Show this to
the woman in the shop before the Café de l’Orient, Greek Street, and say
‘Warsaw.’ You will be admitted. Give the packet to Leo or to the
President; to no one else! Quick! go, I implore you!”
O’Hagan took the ring, raised the girl’s white fingers to his lips, and
bowed over her hand as over the hand of a queen. It was the farewell of
an old-time courtier and most perfect gentleman—completely
untheatrical, exquisitely dignified. At such moments you perceive in my
friend the ideal cavalier.
Her face flushed rosily—and paled to a greater pallor.
In the doorway O’Hagan turned again and bowed. Then, straight downstairs
we hastened—he with the package in an inside pocket—and through to the
street, unquestioned. A taxi-cab had just discharged a visitor at the
door, and O’Hagan detained the man with a short, imperious gesture.
We leapt in.
“Café de l’Orient, Greek Street,” said my friend. “Three-and-nine if you
get there in five minutes!”
—————
IV.
THE CONSPIRATORS.