The Chevalier, according to O’Hagan, is “the last of the _grand seigneurs_.” I think O’Hagan may be right; and trust he is. This fire-eating Frenchman in my opinion constitutes a menace to society. He would any day rather cut a man’s throat than shake hands with him. (His recent decoration for having personally dispatched a larger number of Boches than any other man in the armies of France, will be a memory fresh in my reader’s mind.) “And I do not expect you to withdraw, Raymond,”—coldly. Since, on more than one recent occasion, I had been so unfortunate as to incur O’Hagan’s displeasure, I perceived that a path was cut for my feet—a path of peril, from which, nevertheless, I might not stray. I understand that Charles II., when it pleased him, could be a king indeed. The fact that O’Hagan inherits a similar capacity from someone or another is not necessarily destructive of what posthumous reputation remains to the lady of his race who ornamented the Stuart court. He passed to me a press cutting. The paragraph related how an anonymous gentleman had had a public misunderstanding with Mr. Ronald Brandon, the famous author, whose forthcoming work, etc., etc. The misunderstanding had been due to the presence of La Belle Yvette Lotus, the beautiful dancer, etc., etc. “D’Oysans has already arranged the preliminaries,” explained O’Hagan. “So all that you have to do, my boy, is to meet me at Victoria to-night at ten-thirty.” “This is incredible!” “Not at all.” “We shall all stand to be arrested!” “Never fear. These little affairs are better managed in France!” “For heaven’s sake, what weapons?” “Swords!” “In what way are you interested in this girl?” “In no way. Not in the slightest.” O’Hagan stood up and gracefully executed the Grand Salute with his cane. “I badly need a little practice,” he said. “That is all, Raymond!” “This man, Ronald Brandon, has some reputation as a swordsman.” “So I hear,” replied O’Hagan languidly. “He has grossly insulted me; so that I am quite looking forward to meeting him. Although he merely comes of a race of attorneys, he appears to have a fine reach.” He yawned slightly. There came a ringing of my door bell, which I proceeded to investigate. “Might I inquire who the blazes your distinguished visitor is?” Thus O’Hagan, critically examining a very large size in formidable ruffians who had forced his way past me into the study. “Which of you is O’Hagan?” demanded the caller, truculently. He was a man fully six feet two in his boots; wore a peculiarly racy tweed suit, cut morning-coat fashion; a pink soft collar, and a green tie adorned with a big diamond. He was bullet-headed, close shaven, and rejoiced in a prominent jaw of marine blue. He threw a soft hat into a corner and addressed a ferocious glare to each of us in turn. “You have a broken nose,” said the Captain, with icy distaste. “That’s done it! You’re ’im!” proclaimed the visitor. “An’ you’ll ’ave a broken neck in ’alf a mo!”