Imagine every eye in Varano’s supper-room to be centred upon this wildly picturesque pair. O’Hagan, his cloak cast back in purple splendour, rested one hand upon his hip with a gesture which had not been inconsistent with the act of depressing a rapier hilt. “Are you quite sure”—he bent towards her with inimitable gallantry—“that a scene here will enhance your professional reputation?” She glanced up rapidly—and down again, shyly. She could not recall having feared to meet any man’s eye prior to encountering Captain O’Hagan. “Mr. Dewson—he says so; and Mr. Dewson is so clever. He never makes mistakes.” “I concede that Mr. Dewson is clever; but nevertheless he makes mistakes, mademoiselle. I am impartial. I can insult Mr. Brandon without involving you in any way. But, if you wish to be involved, command me.” La Belle felt singularly helpless. Instinctively she divined that the forceful Mr. Dewson and the imperious Captain O’Hagan were advancing to no common end. “It is better that we keep to Mr. Dewson’s arrangements, I think.” “Very well.” O’Hagan proffered his arm. He led her doorward. A sibilant chorus of gasps arose. Brandon was up, now. His face flushed deeply, and paled, vying in its pallor with the serviette which he crushed in one shaking hand. He thrust back his chair. A staccato cough drew his gaze to a distant table. Mr. Dewson—conscientious stage-manager—feared that one of the cast was like to overact his rôle. Brandon hesitated, fuming. La Belle Yvette knew a fearful joy. Her inordinate vanity was gratified by this scene, but even her great daring recoiled from that which pended. Yet she offered no real resistance. True, she placed her hand upon O’Hagan’s, but he calmly clasped it in his own. “Act as I direct,” he said, bending his picturesque head and looking into the half-fearful eyes. He glanced aside to where the head-waiter stood, a figure of pitiable indecision, a study in fatuous ineptitude. “My man—this lady’s cloak.” Upon the hushed silence of the supper-room the words rang out sharply. The head-waiter hesitated. The head-waiter at Varano’s is a person of proper proportions and seemly dignity. It is no part of his important functions menially to run for hats and cloaks. O’Hagan’s unoccupied hand raised the glass. “Were you aware that I gave you an order?” The head-waiter became aware of the awesome fact. He departed. Brandon’s chair fell backward. A wine-glass was dropped with a crash upon the floor beside Mr. Dewson’s table. But the prompting of the ingenious press agent now was unheeded. The novelist strode down the room. One or two of the male visitors half rose. Some of the women began to look frightened. “Damn your impudence! Release that lady!” Dewson slipped from his place and joined the interesting group. He placed his hand warningly upon Brandon’s shoulder. “Don’t lose your wool!” he whispered. “It’s going great!” Brandon shook him off.