“Warsaw!” said O’Hagan, magnificently—and swept his arm toward a dirty glass-panelled door on our right.
“Oui, monsieur!” mumbled the old woman; and shuffled around the counter.
Without properly realising by what stages I had come there, I found myself standing before the closed door of an upper-floor room. O’Hagan knocked. A shouted conversation, rising, a harsh duetto, above an angry chorus, ceased abruptly.
O’Hagan threw wide the door and strode into the room.
This was small, smelling strongly of stale coffee and caporal cigarettes, and was illuminated by a gas burner low hung above a square table. About the table sat eight or ten foreigners—seemingly Russians or Poles—nearly all of whom leapt to their feet at our appearance. One, an old man with a venerable white beard, rose with greater dignity, fixing his brilliant eyes upon my friend.
O’Hagan rested one hand upon his hip, and with the other held the monocle an inch or so removed from his right eye. Amid a magnetic silence:
“Gentlemen,” he said, with a sort of frigid courtesy—“and good people—you will favour me by resuming your seats!”
Of this gracious permission no one availed himself. An angry muttering arose, and—
“What is your business?” demanded the venerable chairman, in excellent English.
O’Hagan, through upraised glass, studied each face in turn and attentively. The muttering grew, and grew, and became a simian clamour. All eyes were turned to my nonchalant friend.