“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.