In that simple inclination he had conveyed: “Duke”—(it were impossible to imagine O’Hagan addressing any man breathing as “Your Highness”)—“Duke, you are in the company of a gentleman at present amicably disposed toward you, but of a gentleman who would as promptly tweak your nose, should you forget what is due to him, as he would tweak any other.” It was a silent declaration of aristocracy, typically and peculiarly O’Haganish. A faint shade of difference crept into the Grand Duke’s voice. I doubt if the man has lived, since Napoleon Buonaparte, who, meeting Captain the Honble. Bernard O’Hagan, could have escaped enmeshment within his catholic patronage. O’Hagan would patronize the shade of Julius Cæsar. “What,” inquired the Grand Duke awkwardly, “do you propose?” “First,” said my friend, holding his monocle between second and third fingers, and waving it roofward, “extinguish these interior lights. It was most indiscreet to travel so publicly.” Association with Bernard O’Hagan renders one more or less accustomed to the _outre_. The amazing ceases to amaze, the appalling to appal; wonders lose their potency, and one’s pulse remains normal amid singular adventures. It afforded me small surprise to see my friend’s injunction instantly obeyed. (It would afford me small surprise to see the Premier blacking O’Hagan’s boots.) “Next,” continued the Captain, “direct your man to drive to your embassy.” The obedient Grand Duke bent forward and called gutturally into the tube. (“There is one thing,” O’Hagan tells me, “which a nobleman of the Grand Duke’s race can never appreciate—the doctrine of aristocratic equality. He must always dominate or be dominated. My ancestor, Patrick, had this from the lips of Cardinal Richelieu—a singularly shrewd observer, Raymond, and a gentleman.”) “I have no intention,” resumed the Grand Duke, “of handing them over to the ambassador.” O’Hagan shrugged his shoulders impatiently, turning his eye-glass upon the speaker with the air of a wise man weary of folly. “_Will_ you allow me to advise?” he said, with a certain disdain. “Do _they_ know that?” “They cannot possibly,” replied the other. “It is what they most fear—eh?” “Very well, then,” drawled O’Hagan, yawning discreetly under cover of a gloved hand, “they will abandon the pursuit and no attempt will be made upon your private apartments.” “I do not fear their attempts!” growled the Grand Duke, with truculent contempt. “My good Duke!” said O’Hagan languidly—“my dear Duke—do you wish every paper in Europe to discuss your affairs? Do you wish all the world to hear of an attempt to burgle your rooms?” “What! do you think they would dare?” Captain O’Hagan surveyed him, pebble uplifted, as one surveys a surpassing fool. “Dare!” he said icily. “Dare! My good, dear Duke—where is your common sense?”