Chapter II: La Belle Lotus

Those of you who have the privilege to be acquainted with my friend Bernard O’Hagan will find much scope for wonderment in the circumstance that Mr. Dewson proceeded thus far and survived, intact. No one but a successful press agent could possibly have mistaken the significance of the Captain’s icy calm. Anyone who, knowing him, had adventured upon such a proposal, must have been aware that, so doing, he carried his life in his hand. Mr. Dewson remained placidly ignorant of the fires which he was coaling.

“Will you come along now to Brandon’s flat?” he suggested, in his brisk way.

“It will afford me great pleasure. I am most anxious to meet Mr. Brandon!”

Passing over the short journey, then—throughout which almost every word of Mr. Dewson’s inspired O’Hagan with a new wonder at the shamelessness of the times, and added fuel to his resentment—enter the house of Ronald Brandon, novelist.

“Here he is, Brandon!” cried the press agent. “He’s coming in on it!”

Ronald Brandon was a tall and good-looking young man, carrying a certain athletic arrogance with poor grace. From his perfectly groomed fair hair to his white spatted, immaculately glossy boots he was an incarnate error of judgment. He had been encouraged to think himself a celebrity—and the whole thing was a mistake. He was not even in the same flight with the double of Napoleon III.

His casually extended hand Captain O’Hagan failed to observe. O’Hagan bowed with exceeding fine formality.

“Going to have a little bout with me, Captain?” laughed Brandon lightly.

“I am looking forward to it,” was the reply, “provided your status admits of my crossing swords with you.”

Dewson and Brandon stared uncomprehendingly.

“I mean, are you of gentle blood? To what Brandons do you belong?”

The novelist continued to stare.

“My governor is James Brandon, K.C., if that’s what you’re driving at!”

“Professional people?” said O’Hagan with exquisite condescension. “Never mind. For our present purpose, sufficiently respectable.”

What the now incensed Brandon might have said to that will never be known, for he was interrupted by the ringing of the bell, by the almost immediate entrance of a loudly pretty woman who was furiously overdressed, who struck the vision a sharp blow, from which one’s outraged eyes blinkingly recoiled. She was arrayed in a long coat of leopard’s skin, wore a motor bonnet of the same material, from the left side whereof, rearward, swept a golden plume of incredible length. Her hair was of the hue sometimes called Titian, but would have made Titian weep blood.

This lady—who proved to be French—was introduced as La Belle Lotus.

“Another client of mine, Captain!” explained Dewson, affably anxious to dissipate the thundery atmosphere which had settled upon the establishment. Brandon was scowling ferociously. “She is the latest sensation in dancers, sir. Her ‘Dance of Delilah’ is the talk of London! This is the lady you’ll quarrel about. Savvy? Three birds with one stone! All town will rush to see the girl two big men have fought over. Up go her bookings! How’s that for a three-handed boost? The limit?”

O’Hagan raised his glass.

“It strikes me as being appreciably beyond the limit!” he drawled. “But what has led you to suppose that I am desirous of publishing my memoirs?”

“You’re not out throwing away thousands, I take it?”

“On the contrary, Mr. Dewson. But, emphatically, I shall not publish any kind of book. You may omit that item from your ‘proposition.’”

La Belle surveyed the speaker appreciatively. Brandon watched him in angry perplexity. Dewson’s round eyes grew rounder.

“You don’t mean to say——”

“I have no intention of disturbing your admirable arrangements, Mr. Dewson. You may rely upon me to meet Mr. Brandon.”

“But ‘My Affaires’”——

“Dismiss the idea. It is out of the question.”

“Then what are you doing it for?”

O’Hagan, having examined minutely the visible attractions of La Belle Lotus—so minutely as to make her blush—dropped his glass.

“Your proposal is of such a nature, sir,” he replied calmly, “that no gentleman could decline to accept it.”

“I want to know how we stand,” burst in Brandon, his choler enhanced by the evident inability of the lady to withstand O’Hagan’s frank gaze. “Are you——”

“Am I going to meet you on the French coast, sir?” O’Hagan anticipated. “Emphatically, yes! Rely upon me!”

“That’s good,” rapped Dewson. “We’ll talk about the book, later. When you see eye to eye with me you won’t want to drop it. But you’re game for the little passage of arms? That’s the talk! Well, talking’s dry work. What about——”

“Excuse me.” O’Hagan raised his hand. “Pray excuse me!”

“But we’ve made no arrangements.”

“I am listening, Mr. Dewson.”

Dewson felt that he was being hustled.

“Well, I’d planned it to start on Wednesday night. Brandon and Yvette—La Belle—are having supper at Varano’s. I’m there, too; but not at the same table. Press boys there, of course. You blow in, and say or do something which Brandon’s supposed to take as an insult.”

O’Hagan, his head attentively tilted, nodded. La Belle was watching him, now, fascinatedly.

“I shall observe your wishes implicitly, Mr. Dewson!”

“Bit of a scene. Cards exchanged. Pars in the press.”

“A proviso, sir. My name shall not be mentioned.”

“Not mentioned!”

“Let all the credit be Mr. Brandon’s. I remain anonymous.”

“It’s sure to come out later. I don’t understand——”

“I am aware of that, Mr. Dewson! On the following morning, if I do not mistake you, Mr. Brandon’s friends call upon me, and the meeting is arranged?”

“That’s it! We’re supposed to be hushing it up, see? But it kind of leaks out!”

“Precisely. At what hour will Mr. Brandon be supping?”

“Say half-past eleven.”

“It is an appointment.”

Captain O’Hagan bowed to the leopard lady, looking challengingly into her eyes—turned from Messrs. Brandon and Dewson, and walked to the door. Upon Brandon’s tongue unutterable things trembled. Mr. Dewson was not entirely at his ease.

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