“Ring up Gerrard 04385!”
Ritzmann dropped into his chair and sat there with bulging eyes. The constable, amid a surprising silence, took up the telephone and got the desired number.
“Ask if that is the Junior Guards,” directed O’Hagan.
Yes, it was the Junior Guards.
“See if Colonel Sir Gerald Fitz Ayre is in the house.”
The name of that celebrated soldier electrified the Captain’s audience. Fitz Ayre was found and came to the telephone. O’Hagan took the receiver from the now extremely respectful officer.
“That you, Fitz Ayre? Yes; O’Hagan speaking. My confounded eccentricities of costume have got me into hot water again! Will you please describe me to the person who is now coming to the ’phone! Yes. Thank you.”
Ritzmann, summoned imperiously, took the receiver in his trembling hands. But he did not listen to the Colonel’s florid description of O’Hagan’s person; for his mind was otherwise engaged. He knew himself the victim of a tremendous bluff, but, now, he knew the bluffer for one above his reach; he knew, moreover, that he lacked evidence, and that he had been guilty of a slander which might cost him thousands. Pamela Crichton’s music was quite saleable. He would lose nothing by the deal; he would see to that. His course was clear.
“Thanks. Good-bye.”
Ritzmann turned to O’Hagan.