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!