Donohue, a model man, immaculate, in immaculate black, proclaimed the arrival, and ushered in the person, of Sir Roger. You would like Sir Roger Rundel; bronzed, well groomed, reserved, forty-five; he is what we mean by a typical English gentleman.
He and O’Hagan are old friends. Donohue made fresh kahweh (no one expects whisky in the mandarah), whilst Sir Roger selected from the rack an amber mouthpiece neatly labelled “R.R.” and appropriated the guest’s tube of the narghli.
O’Hagan: “Been hoping to see you every day since I heard of your return, Rundel.”
Sir Roger: “Yes, yes. Since my—marriage, fear I’ve neglected bachelor friends. I leave London to-night—on departmental business.”
Silence; broken by bubbling of narghli. Enter Donohue with coffee. Exit Donohue.
O’Hagan fumbled for the indispensable pebble, found it, and examined Sir Roger’s face critically.
“There’s a fly in the ointment, Rundel. Name the brute’s species.”
Sir Roger put down his cup with a rattle.
“Captain Haverley,” he snapped—“and now I’ve said it!”
“Ah,” mused O’Hagan; “Haverley, of the —th Greys. Only know him by repute.”