“Delightful, my boy! Wildly and picturesquely romantic! Enter Lawrence Raymond and Bernard O’Hagan—and what becomes of the ducal plan? It miserably crumbles to dust! Virtue and Love are triumphant, and we are the heroes of the hour!” The cab stopped before a dingy little café. Our entire capital O’Hagan lavished upon the man, and we entered the café. Its front portion proved to consist of a shop where coffee-pots and such utensils were sold, and behind the counter sat an adipose and unctuous lady of considerable maturity. O’Hagan’s entrance brought her to her feet in quick alarm. My friend held the ring before her eyes. She viewed it in palpable wonder, her slightly crooked gaze vacillating betwixt the face of my cavalierly friend and my own. “_Warsaw!_” said O’Hagan, magnificently—and swept his arm toward a dirty glass-panelled door on our right. “Oui, monsieur!” mumbled the old woman; and shuffled around the counter. Without properly realising by what stages I had come there, I found myself standing before the closed door of an upper-floor room. O’Hagan knocked. A shouted conversation, rising, a harsh _duetto_, above an angry chorus, ceased abruptly. O’Hagan threw wide the door and strode into the room. This was small, smelling strongly of stale coffee and caporal cigarettes, and was illuminated by a gas burner low hung above a square table. About the table sat eight or ten foreigners—seemingly Russians or Poles—nearly all of whom leapt to their feet at our appearance. One, an old man with a venerable white beard, rose with greater dignity, fixing his brilliant eyes upon my friend. O’Hagan rested one hand upon his hip, and with the other held the monocle an inch or so removed from his right eye. Amid a magnetic silence: “Gentlemen,” he said, with a sort of frigid courtesy—“and good people—you will favour me by resuming your seats!” Of this gracious permission no one availed himself. An angry muttering arose, and— “What is your business?” demanded the venerable chairman, in excellent English. O’Hagan, through upraised glass, studied each face in turn and attentively. The muttering grew, and grew, and became a simian clamour. All eyes were turned to my nonchalant friend. “My business, monsieur,” he replied—speaking in French, probably with the idea that the rest of the company would be more likely to understand him—“is of the utmost gravity.” The uproar waxed louder. One swarthy, thickset fellow turned and took a step in O’Hagan’s direction. O’Hagan raised his glass again—and the fellow sat down. “But,” resumed my friend icily, “until a perfect silence is preserved I shall not disclose it” (louder uproar than ever); “I am not accustomed to interruption by the rabble.” Silence fell—save that it was a murderous silence. But: “Your rebuke is just,” said the aged spokesman, glaring fiercely around. “I will see to it that you are not interrupted. Your business, monsieur?” “It is,” replied O’Hagan, “to denounce a traitor!”