“I will give you a ring at the hotel, Mr. Eddington.” (I had sent in the card of Harry Eddington, who at the time was with an expedition looking for the South Pole.) “I dare say we may be able to fix something up.” “Good morning.” I made a plunge for a door on the left of his desk. “This way out, Mr. Eddington,” came after me; but I was in the corridor, and closed the door behind me. A white hand with extended fingers was painted on the further wall, and, beneath it, the words: Harris & Harris, _Domestic Employment Agency_. Turning to the right, I passed out into Berners Street. “It is well,” said O’Hagan, musingly, when I had made my report. “You will now get back to the said corridor, without permitting yourself to be seen from Ritzmann’s shop; you will wait by Ritzmann’s private door, but on the stair side, so that when I come out he won’t notice you. I shall hand you something; you will go up Harris and Harris’s stair like a rocket, concealing, of course, the object referred to, and see about a cook. Then go home.” One pays for the privilege of O’Hagan’s friendship. I had not been at my post more than half a minute, when I saw O’Hagan pass in the street and enter the Ritzmann shop. I began to make notes in a note-book to excuse my loitering. Leaving me so engaged, you will please follow the Captain. To a counter-clerk: “Kindly inform Mr. Ritzmann,” he said, “that the gentleman he is expecting will see him.” “Yes, sir. Certainly, sir. Will you take a seat!” This, the shop staff were decided, was either a distinguished Russian composer or a gentleman of title interested in a new musical comedy for the “Gaiety.” A moment later: “Mr. Ritzmann will see you at once, sir. This way, if you please.” O’Hagan swung grandly office-ward, and entered to find Ritzmann standing to greet him. The clerk was about to retire. “My good fellow,” called O’Hagan, “Mr. Ritzmann and I are not to be interrupted upon any account.” The clerk bowed and retired. Ritzmann stared. “You say I was expecting you, Mr.——?” O’Hagan smiled, waving his hand reassuringly. “Pray be seated, Mr. Ritzmann.” Mr. Ritzmann accepted the invitation, and O’Hagan sat upon the edge of the desk facing him. O’Hagan was between Mr. Ritzmann and the bell. “I have decided to place with you for immediate publication a parcel of charming compositions—nine in all.” Ritzmann’s eyes began to protrude. “They are these.” O’Hagan opened the portfolio and set the heap of MSS. on the desk. With frequent sideway glances at his extraordinary visitor, Mr. Ritzmann began to look at the music. “Why,” he burst out, suddenly, pushing the whole of it towards the Captain, “all this stuff has been submitted by post, and declined! All but this thing; and Miss Crichton was here only the other day with it. I don’t want the junk, my dear sir! If I’d known that’s what you——” O’Hagan waved him to silence.