“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.”