O’Hagan rose from the Chesterfield which is his favourite lounge and stretched himself languidly. He poked the fire and left the poker between the bars.
“Raymond,” he drawled, “shall I go and find a constable to throw this low dog down stairs?”
The man leapt to the door with extraordinary agility, locked it, and slipped the key into a back pocket of his trousers. He faced us, a formidable figure, stripped to the pink shirt, which revealed the enormous development of his pectoral muscles. O’Hagan moves amid singular proceedings.
“Now, my bonny gentleman! My name’s ‘Trooper’ Belcher—an’ I’m ’er husband!”
“I trust you refer to Mrs. Belcher?”—O’Hagan.
Belcher: “My wife’s La Belle Lotus!”
The Captain studied Mr. Belcher with a new curiosity.
“I gather that you are a music-hall pugilist. Am I also to conclude that you are a bully acting on behalf of Mr. Brandon, whom I have to meet at seven in the morning outside Calais?”
“I met Mr. bloomin’ Brandon at seven this evenin’ outside Oxford Circus!” shouted Belcher. “You’ll meet ’im in Middlesex ’Ospital!”
My wits had deserted me. From the moment that the man had thrust his way into my rooms up to that when he had thus proclaimed himself the assailant of Brandon, I had stood helplessly watching his outrageous proceedings.