Part 2

“To learn if there is a second door to Ritzmann’s office; another than that opening on the shop. If there is, come out by it at all costs, and note where it leads you to. I think, and hope, it will open on a corridor communicating with the street. From what I know of Ritzmann I feel confident that there will be such a private entrance. You will note, also, where the _other_ end of this hypothetical passage leads to. Probably it will be to a stair. Finally, you will report respecting the occupant of the suite of offices above—the suite to which this stair should conduct you.”

“I am not confident,” I said; “but I will do my best.”

Three minutes later I was ushered into the Semitic presence of Mr. Paul Ritzmann. Mr. Ritzmann had a corpulent person, a bald head, and an oily smile. He wore diamond rings on his left hand as well as on his right, by which token I knew that he was really rich. A Hebrew of the Ritzmann type buys a diamond ring as soon as he can afford it, and displays it upon his right hand. That is an advertising investment; it signifies that he is ambitious. But when his right hand is full and he begins to adorn his left it implies that his ambition is realised.

He made no plunge at my South American offer. He was very cautious.

“I will give you a ring at the hotel, Mr. Eddington.” (I had sent in the card of Harry Eddington, who at the time was with an expedition looking for the South Pole.) “I dare say we may be able to fix something up.”

“Good morning.”

I made a plunge for a door on the left of his desk.

“This way out, Mr. Eddington,” came after me; but I was in the corridor, and closed the door behind me.

A white hand with extended fingers was painted on the further wall, and, beneath it, the words:

Harris & Harris, _Domestic Employment Agency_.

Turning to the right, I passed out into Berners Street.

“It is well,” said O’Hagan, musingly, when I had made my report. “You will now get back to the said corridor, without permitting yourself to be seen from Ritzmann’s shop; you will wait by Ritzmann’s private door, but on the stair side, so that when I come out he won’t notice you. I shall hand you something; you will go up Harris and Harris’s stair like a rocket, concealing, of course, the object referred to, and see about a cook. Then go home.”

One pays for the privilege of O’Hagan’s friendship.

I had not been at my post more than half a minute, when I saw O’Hagan pass in the street and enter the Ritzmann shop. I began to make notes in a note-book to excuse my loitering. Leaving me so engaged, you will please follow the Captain.

To a counter-clerk:

“Kindly inform Mr. Ritzmann,” he said, “that the gentleman he is expecting will see him.”

“Yes, sir. Certainly, sir. Will you take a seat!”

This, the shop staff were decided, was either a distinguished Russian composer or a gentleman of title interested in a new musical comedy for the “Gaiety.”

A moment later:

“Mr. Ritzmann will see you at once, sir. This way, if you please.”

O’Hagan swung grandly office-ward, and entered to find Ritzmann standing to greet him.

The clerk was about to retire.

“My good fellow,” called O’Hagan, “Mr. Ritzmann and I are not to be interrupted upon any account.”

The clerk bowed and retired. Ritzmann stared.

“You say I was expecting you, Mr.——?”

O’Hagan smiled, waving his hand reassuringly.

“Pray be seated, Mr. Ritzmann.”

Mr. Ritzmann accepted the invitation, and O’Hagan sat upon the edge of the desk facing him. O’Hagan was between Mr. Ritzmann and the bell.

“I have decided to place with you for immediate publication a parcel of charming compositions—nine in all.”

Ritzmann’s eyes began to protrude.

“They are these.”

O’Hagan opened the portfolio and set the heap of MSS. on the desk.

With frequent sideway glances at his extraordinary visitor, Mr. Ritzmann began to look at the music.

“Why,” he burst out, suddenly, pushing the whole of it towards the Captain, “all this stuff has been submitted by post, and declined! All but this thing; and Miss Crichton was here only the other day with it. I don’t want the junk, my dear sir! If I’d known that’s what you——”

O’Hagan waved him to silence.

“Of all these things I am fully aware, Mr. Ritzmann; but I thought I had explained that I had selected you to publish these compositions?”

The other clutched the arms of his chair.

“_Selected_ me?”

“That was my expression. Had the music been worthless——”

“It _is_ worthless! Piffle!”

“Had the music been worthless I should not have offered it to you. But each of these nine items is a sound speculation. We shall require nine agreement-forms.”

Ritzmann, staring, rose slowly to his feet.

“Sit down, Mr. Ritzmann.”

Ritzmann moistened his thick lips preparatory to comment.

“Sit down, Mr. Ritzmann.”

He sat down; and his fleshy hands were not quite steady; the diamonds danced and sparkled. He managed to achieve coherent speech:

“This is a damn big bluff! But if you bluff from now——”

“You have royalty-forms in your desk; we shall require nine.”

Ritzmann got on his feet and plunged for the bell. He was hurled back with violence; and his eyes protruded unnaturally at sight of the pistol which pointed at his bald skull.

“Nine forms, Mr. Ritzmann.”

“You must—be mad. You—dare not——”

“There you are in error. I would shoot you without compunction. If I failed to escape I should shoot myself. I have nothing to live for, and I should go to eternity with that one good deed to my credit. I will dictate the titles of the nine pieces and you will fill in the forms.”

Ritzmann’s face grew ashy. He looked a stricken man. The bundle of forms shook and rustled like autumn leaves in a breeze. Unemotionally, O’Hagan read out the titles; shakily, all but illegibly, the publisher wrote them in. Form after form was filled updated and signed. Two, O’Hagan rejected as quite illegible. But at last he was satisfied, and pocketed the nine.

“Ten guineas on account of each,” he said; “that will be a cheque for ninety-four pounds, ten shillings, payable to Miss Pamela Crichton.”

Ritzmann’s face showed that he was contemplating rebellion.

“I shall count ten, Mr. Ritzmann!”

The cheque was drawn up and signed. O’Hagan carefully folded and placed it in his pocket-book.

“Good day,” he said, and backed towards the door.

He opened it and stepped out into the passage. He had not closed it ere with bell and husky voice Ritzmann was summoning assistance.

O’Hagan handed me the pistol. He took out his cigarette-case and selected a cigarette. Before he had found his matchbox I was upstairs and inside Messrs. Harris and Harris’s office. It must have been at about the moment when I was stating my lack of a suitable parlourmaid, that three clerks, rushing out of the shop, intercepted the Captain, as, match in hand, he stood at the street-end of the passage.

They would have seized him; but O’Hagan’s eyes can quell.

“Your dirty hands off! The meaning of this outrage?”

Trembling, grey-faced, Mr. Ritzmann joined the three clerks. A fourth, who had been detailed to that duty, returned from an adjacent corner with a constable.

“Arrest that man! He has robbed me!”

O’Hagan closed his matchbox with a _click_ and fixed his eyes upon the officer.

“Constable,” he said, with dignity, “step into the shop. This is an outrage for which Mr. Ritzmann shall pay. Step inside if you please—all of you.”

The wide-eyed clerks returned to the shop. Ritzmann, never taking his gaze from O’Hagan, but keeping at a safe distance, entered behind the Captain, clutching at the perplexed policeman and whispering: “He has robbed me! He’s got my cheque in his pocket!”

Having entered the shop,—to the excited clerks:

“Return to your duties, good fellows!” ordered O’Hagan. “I am not accustomed to be made an object of vulgar curiosity! Mr. Ritzmann, lead the way to your office. Constable—follow.”

The odd trio entered Ritzmann’s sanctum. O’Hagan closed the door.

“He’s dangerous!” cried the publisher. “He carries a pistol!”

O’Hagan raised his hand.

“The officer, Mr. Ritzmann,” he said, “is prepared to do his duty. But you have not stated your case. Of what am I accused?”

“Of extorting money from me, at the point of a pistol!”

“Officer! You have my permission to look for the weapon!”

The constable ran his hands over O’Hagan.

“Excuse me, sir,” he reported to Mr. Ritzmann, who was now regaining colour and perspiring freely, “but the gentleman hasn’t got any pistol on him!”

“He’s dropped it in the passage!” yelled Ritzmann. “He——”

Again O’Hagan raised the forceful hand.

“One of your clerks can go and look; and would you be good enough to request your manager to join us?”

The necessary instructions were given, and the manager appeared. O’Hagan threw down his bunch of agreements and displayed the cheque.

“Sir,” he said to the manager, “are these in order?”

“He made me do it!” cried Ritzmann hoarsely, “at the point of a pistol!”

A shopman entered to report that there was no pistol in the passage. Ritzmann began to swear.

“Silence!” thundered O’Hagan. “Silence! you contemptible scoundrel!” To the manager: “Are those agreements and this cheque quite regular?”

“Well,” said the manager, glancing deprecatingly at his employer—“I can see nothing irregular about them. They are in your writing, Mr. Ritzmann!”

“He held a pistol to my head!” cried the publisher. “You’re a pack of fools! Fools! Officer! will you do your duty and arrest that thief!”

O’Hagan took a stride towards the speaker.

“Stop him!” quavered Ritzmann, paling. “He——”

“Mr. Ritzmann,” said O’Hagan calmly, “you are a low blackguard! Repenting of your bargain, you invented this cock-and-bull story as a means of evading it! Knowing me to be a man who has led an adventurous life, you thought yourself safe in charging me with carrying arms! I have several witnesses to the fact that you have grossly slandered me. That your charge is absurd—insane—worthy of a ‘penny-dreadful’—renders it none the less slanderous. You will either apologise, here and now, or—there is my card. My solicitor will take charge of the matter in the morning!”

Down on to the desk before the bewildered Ritzmann, O’Hagan cast his card. Like everything appertaining to that remarkable man, his card is impressive, unusual, striking; a battery. Mr. Ritzmann, his manager and the constable, read the following:

──────────────────────────────────────────────

=_Capt. the Hon. Barnard O’Hagan_,= =V.C., D.S.O.=

=_Junior Guards’ Club._=

──────────────────────────────────────────────

The constable stood stiffly to attention, and saluted.

“What am I to do, sir?” he asked—of O’Hagan.

“Ring up Gerrard 04385!”

Ritzmann dropped into his chair and sat there with bulging eyes. The constable, amid a surprising silence, took up the telephone and got the desired number.

“Ask if that is the Junior Guards,” directed O’Hagan.

Yes, it was the Junior Guards.

“See if Colonel Sir Gerald Fitz Ayre is in the house.”

The name of that celebrated soldier electrified the Captain’s audience. Fitz Ayre was found and came to the telephone. O’Hagan took the receiver from the now extremely respectful officer.

“That you, Fitz Ayre? Yes; O’Hagan speaking. My confounded eccentricities of costume have got me into hot water again! Will you please _describe me_ to the person who is now coming to the ’phone! Yes. Thank you.”

Ritzmann, summoned imperiously, took the receiver in his trembling hands. But he did not listen to the Colonel’s florid description of O’Hagan’s person; for his mind was otherwise engaged. He knew himself the victim of a tremendous bluff, but, now, he knew the bluffer for one above his reach; he knew, moreover, that he lacked evidence, and that he had been guilty of a slander which might cost him thousands. Pamela Crichton’s music was quite saleable. He would lose nothing by the deal; he would see to that. His course was clear.

“Thanks. Good-bye.”

Ritzmann turned to O’Hagan.

“I apologise, Captain O’Hagan!” he said. “I was mad! Officer—a sovereign for you!”

* * * * *

“May I present my friend, Mr. Lawrence Raymond?” said O’Hagan. “This is Miss Pamela Crichton, the clever composer I spoke about! Isn’t she a picture?”

She was. But she blushed furiously. O’Hagan handed her a bundle of agreements. As she looked through them, her flushed cheeks grew quite pale. When a cheque for ninety guineas was placed in her hands, frankly, I thought she would have swooned.

Old Crichton, hovering about in the dingy background, showed as a man who is dazed beyond comprehension.

“Oh, Captain O’Hagan,” began Pamela, and her pretty eyes were troubled, “how can I thank you! Why have you done this—for _me_?”

“Because you are _you_, Pamela!” said O’Hagan. “Because you are so very charming, and because one day you will be so very famous!”

Pamela met his eyes frankly—and was content.

Throughout our brief stay, O’Hagan’s treatment of the girl was worthy of the days of chivalry. Never, for a moment, did he presume upon that superiority of blood which is so real in his eyes, nor upon the service he had done this newsagent’s daughter. When we took our leave he kissed her hand in his astonishing, cavalierly way, tactfully ignoring her sweet confusion, clapped her father patronisingly upon the back—and swung out of the shop, a gentleman full three hundred years behind his time—the only living being who has recovered the Grand Manner.

You would like to meet my friend O’Hagan.

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!”