swarming in the mortuaries of London. Will you, then? The understanding will be this: that each man who writes his name in a note-book which will lie at Rose Cottage, Thring, or who sends his name, will devote sixty minutes each day to the problem. I happen to be in a position to use a chapel at Thring, and there I will hold a meeting--” At this point Frankl rose: Thring was _his_, his own, own, own; and now his eyes had in them that catlike blaze which characterized his rages. “Here, police! police!” he hissed low, “what's the use of police that don't act!” And now he raised his voice to a scream: “Jews! Shew yourselves! Don't let this man stay here...!” About twenty Jews leapt at the challenge; at the same time Hogarth, seeing two policemen running forward from the back, folded his arms, and cried out: “Friends! I have not finished! Don't let me be removed...” Whereupon practically every man in the pit was in motion, for or against him, the galleries two oblongs of battle. As up the two curving stairs stormed the mob, by a sudden rush like an ocean-current he was borne off his feet toward the side, and was about to bring down his sharp-pointed little knuckles, when his eye fell upon the face of a lady who had fainted. He had had no idea that she was there!--Rebekah Frankl. She had quietly fainted, not at the rush--but before--during Hogarth's speech. Hogarth managed to fight his way to a door at the platform back with her, entered a room where some chairs were, but, seeing a stair, could not let her go from his embrace, but descended, passed along a passage and out into a patch of green. She, under the dark sky, whispered: “It is you”, her forehead on his shoulder; and added: “My carriage, I think, is yonder”. Hogarth saw the carriage-lights at the field's edge, bore her thither, laid her with care on the cushions, kissed her hand: and this act Frankl saw--with incredulity of his own eyes. As he approached, Hogarth walked away. Frankl mastered his voice to say blandly in Spanish: “Well, how did you get through, sweet child? Who was that man--? But stay: where are those two fools?” This meant the two familiars--the Arabs, Isaac and Mephibosheth, one of whom had come as footman, the other as coachman--and, as he went raging about the carriage, with stamps, his boot struck against a body. There was enough light to reveal to his peering that it was Mephibosheth, whom Isaac had stabbed, and fled... Frankl lowered his ear--doubted whether he could detect a breathing; and though scared, he being a Cohen, and the presence of death defilement, yet he stayed, bending over Mephi several minutes, thinking, not of him, but of Hogarth. “It is that fool, Isaac, has done it”, he thought; “and if the man be dead--” What then? “_If_ he be dead, I've got you, Mr. Hogarth, in the hollow of this hand....”