“My business, monsieur,” he replied—speaking in French, probably with the idea that the rest of the company would be more likely to understand him—“is of the utmost gravity.”
The uproar waxed louder. One swarthy, thickset fellow turned and took a step in O’Hagan’s direction. O’Hagan raised his glass again—and the fellow sat down.
“But,” resumed my friend icily, “until a perfect silence is preserved I shall not disclose it” (louder uproar than ever); “I am not accustomed to interruption by the rabble.”
Silence fell—save that it was a murderous silence. But:
“Your rebuke is just,” said the aged spokesman, glaring fiercely around. “I will see to it that you are not interrupted. Your business, monsieur?”
“It is,” replied O’Hagan, “to denounce a traitor!”
At that a perfect howl went up. Chairs crashed back upon the floor; and the discussion, which evidently had been interrupted by our entrance, was now resumed with renewed violence. All eyes turned upon a dark young man sitting on the right of the chairman. His handsome, aristocratic face was deathly pale, and his fine nostrils quivered with some emotion hardly repressed.
“Silence!” roared the chairman, in clarion tones, and struck his fist upon the table with a resounding bang. “Silence! Are you mad, that you dispute with strangers present!” He glared about him ominously. “Again, monsieur”—to O’Hagan—“what is your business?”
O’Hagan paused awhile, staring down a man who continued to mutter rapidly to his right-hand neighbour. Then—
“The letters and photographs,” began my friend, as one whose patience wearies——