Down on to the desk before the bewildered Ritzmann, O’Hagan cast his card. Like everything appertaining to that remarkable man, his card is impressive, unusual, striking; a battery. Mr. Ritzmann, his manager and the constable, read the following: ────────────────────────────────────────────── =_Capt. the Hon. Barnard O’Hagan_,= =V.C., D.S.O.= =_Junior Guards’ Club._= ────────────────────────────────────────────── The constable stood stiffly to attention, and saluted. “What am I to do, sir?” he asked—of O’Hagan. “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. “I apologise, Captain O’Hagan!” he said. “I was mad! Officer—a sovereign for you!” * * * * * “May I present my friend, Mr. Lawrence Raymond?” said O’Hagan. “This is Miss Pamela Crichton, the clever composer I spoke about! Isn’t she a picture?” She was. But she blushed furiously. O’Hagan handed her a bundle of agreements. As she looked through them, her flushed cheeks grew quite pale. When a cheque for ninety guineas was placed in her hands, frankly, I thought she would have swooned. Old Crichton, hovering about in the dingy background, showed as a man who is dazed beyond comprehension. “Oh, Captain O’Hagan,” began Pamela, and her pretty eyes were troubled, “how can I thank you! Why have you done this—for _me_?” “Because you are _you_, Pamela!” said O’Hagan. “Because you are so very charming, and because one day you will be so very famous!” Pamela met his eyes frankly—and was content.