Perhaps I shall be forgiven when I say that I remembered with gratitude how Edmond O’Shea had rallied a company of the Guards during the great retreat, how his presence of mind and consummate self-possession had helped historians to chronicle Cambrai with pride rather than with humility. He edged up beside me. I saw him fumbling for his monocle and saw his change of expression when he realized that he had left it behind; then: “Get near the door,” he murmured. “My fault, Decies, to have let you in for this. But I had hoped to learn things that police examination can never bring out.” Macalister came in. He was in dinner kit and he smoked a cigar which, to my disordered vision, appeared to be decorated with two bands. His superb self-possession was worthy of Tom Mix. He did not merely own the room; he possessed the property. “Take the left,” said O’Shea. Unerringly, instinctively, Macalister’s glance settled upon us at the moment of his entrance. He had advanced no more than one pace beyond the butler, and his mouth was agape for excited utterance, when O’Shea’s revolver had him covered. Overwhelmed with a sense of utter unreality, I covered the group of four on my left which included the formidable Schmidt. Glibly, as though born of long familiarity, the words leapt to my tongue: “Hands up!” The command was obeyed. And I have since thought, paradoxical though it may appear, that violent men, in these matters, are more tractable than men of peace. Assessing human life lightly, they credit the brain behind the gun with compunction no greater than their own. “By God!” I heard Macalister say--and I hope I shall always find time to take off my hat to a good loser--“I had you wrong all along, Major!” Schmidt looked dangerously ugly for a moment; then: “Line up,” said O’Shea sharply. “Jump to it. Fall in on the left of Schmidt.” Came inarticulate mutterings, but without other audible protest the group obeyed, forming a line having Schmidt at one end and the saturnine butler at the other. “Now,” O’Shea continued, “if any man lowers his hands, I shall not argue with him. Decies, will you go down to the street door and whistle? Pass behind me. Keep a sharp look-out. I don’t know who is in the house.” I obeyed, the sense of unreality prevailing. But I know I shall always remember that row of sullen-faced men with raised hands, who watched as I crossed behind O’Shea. There was no one on the stairs, and no one in the long, glazed passage that led to the street. This gained, I ran the length of it, and throwing open the double doors beheld a seemingly deserted Porchester Terrace. I whistled shrilly. The result was magical. Springing from what hiding places I know not, men appeared running from right and left! This was the raid squad from Scotland Yard, and I realized that I was helping to mould history.