Lady Rundel slowly raised her hands to her face. “Heavens!” she said, in a smothered voice, “it is Bobby Haverley! Captain O’Hagan, your man must be given in char. . . .” Her voice trailed off into a suppressed ripple. “Lady Rundel!” shouted Haverley frantically—“This is a conspiracy! I have been lashed to a chair——” But Lady Rundel already was half way down the stairs, and her laughter, no longer to be denied, came back in mocking answer. O’Hagan stood in the doorway, monocle raised Haverley, by a tremendous effort, regained control of himself. “Captain O’Hagan,” he said, his voice grating harshly, “you will be in jail to-morrow.” “Possibly,” replied O’Hagan; “but let us survey the facts. If you care to give me the written undertaking to which I referred—merely a matter of form, _now_—you may enjoy the use of the hot and cold water in my bathroom. The dye will wash out. I will even lend you a razor. If you decline, you are at liberty to depart into Whitehall—as you are! Finally, Donohue has taken your photograph! You did so, Donohue?” Donohue: “I did, sir.” “It will, of course, be reproduced in the press during the course of the case. The bathroom is on your immediate left.” Is it necessary to pursue this matter further? I think not. O’Hagan has not been prosecuted. He never will be, I fancy. Recently, he related to Lady Rundel the true facts of the affair; and I thought that she would have never ceased laughing. Captain Bernard O’Hagan’s policy is, Do it hard, and face the music. One sighs for a ministry of O’Hagans. EXPLOIT THE SIXTH. HE HONOURS THE GRAND DUKE. EXPLOIT THE SIXTH. HE HONOURS THE GRAND DUKE. I. WE MEET THE DUKE. The character of my friend Bernard O’Hagan is a maze within a maze, a dædalian labyrinth, to the heart whereof I long since have despaired of penetrating. His sense of humour is acute, but peculiar. A man, he declares, who cannot laugh at Mark Twain is a man from whose soul the joy of life has departed. Yet his idea of bliss would seem to be existence in a Persian rose-garden with some few congenial spirits, and, for attendants, only Greek youths and maidens of flawless classic beauty. Grotesque anomaly! For I defy any philosopher to reconcile the ideals of Petronius Arbiter, Omar, and Samuel Clemens! “Alas, O’Hagan,” I say, “this world of ours is a grey place.” But he turns to me in surprise, monocle raised, and studies my face with a certain apprehension.