Most happily, the Jew’s lunacy involved no further tragedy. At that particular hour, even on a summer night, central London is fairly empty. Therefore, the few privileged spectators of this unparalleled feat by a horse, cab, and man, saw the mad descent and heard Steindal’s incoherent shrieks without being called on to tend some other unhappy sufferer from the escapade. The horse, thoroughly frightened now, lost his coolness when the level ground was reached once more. He dashed on blindly, caught the vehicle against a tree, and the policemen and startled passers-by who then came on the scene extricated the insensible Jew from the ruins of the cab. He had been badly injured by the plunging hoofs, and fully six months elapsed before he was restored to health and Paris. In that time a great many things had happened. Steindal thenceforth passed out of Karl’s life. No action was taken against him for the attempted murder. The mad act was attributed to sudden mania, but he was warned that he must avoid England in future, if he would not undergo the _peine forte et dure_. Hooper was the first to restore order out of chaos. The manner in which he rushed Nora Cazenove out of the box and into her own brougham astonished the opera-goers and made the “front of the house” gasp. Did he take her to Sandilands’ House? If ever you meet him, ask him, and you will hear an expressive Americanism. Somewhat unjustly, he rated Nora all the way from Covent Garden to the hotel. His indignation was pardonable. Karl was his friend, and Nora he had seen for the first time half an hour earlier. If Karl were really dead, Hooper held that Nora’s unreasonable passion was the chief cause of his death. Perchance, the masterful spirit he showed during that turbulent drive went a long way towards taming the impulsive nature of a very lovable and beautiful woman, for, queer whirligig of a world that it is, Nora is now Mrs. Hooper, and a very dear friend, indeed, of Maggie’s. Don’t imagine, for an instant, that Frank smirched the fair fame of all American husbands by “bossing” his charming wife. Next to Karl, and myself, he is a model Benedict. Well, the anguish of that night in Como has long passed away, so I will not attempt to harrow your feelings by describing the heart-broken grief of Maggie, the scarcely less frenzied anxiety of her mother, the turmoil and worry and wild guessing at eventualities which racked us during three weary hours. When Steindal vanished from the restaurant so did Maggie’s perceptiveness fade away. She strove, with a fierce longing, to follow the little _cortège_ which carried Karl up-stairs. It was useless. The veil had fallen. She moved and spoke with the hopeless air of a woman beaten to her knees. I think she was overborne by the experiences of that trying period. Had Karl died, I am sure she would not have survived him long.