“Dick Hogarth. Come to me, and let me lay my heavy head on you. The heart of your friend bodes to-day, bodes, bodes; but is not afraid: a tough heart, Madge. Do you like me to press my hand upon your head like that?” Then, weary of his moaning heart that moaned that day like choruses of haunted winds through desolate halls, he fell to sleep even as he mumbled to her, she, seated near his sofa, playing with his hair, his arm around her, faint zephyrs from the window fanning his head, waving down the valenciennes. But now she tossed the comb away, hummed, became restless, disengaged her shoulders, rose, strayed listlessly, with sighs, and on finding herself in the ante-chamber, opened the door, went out into a corridor, leant her back, eyeing the floor; and next with a great sigh set to gazing upward, droning two notes, one _doh_, one _soh_. All was silent. But now a sound of voices that drew her, she moving into another longer corridor, with balusters which overlooked a hall below, and yonder at the stair-foot were two men in altercation, one a guard, to whom the other was saying “But I tell you the lydy herself arst me to go to her; it's an appointment, just like any other appointment. Do let a fellow pass!” and with mouth at ear he added: “_It's an affair of the 'eart! 'Ere's a sov--_” “Couldn't, my friend, couldn't”, the guardsman said. But now Harris: “Why, there she is 'erself, so 'elp-! come out to meet me, as the Lord liveth!”--ran then toward where she looked over to send up the hoarse whisper: “I sye--didn't you tell me yourself to come--?” On which she nodded amiably, smiling, touching a rose in her bosom. “There you are! What more do you want?” he said to the guard, who now gave him passage: and like a dart he darted, like a freed lark, or unleashed hound, fleet on the feet, with lifted brow. “I sye!” he whispered her, all active, brisk as a cat, ecstatic--“where's 'e?” “Who?”--she still at her rose, a memory straying in her that here was a friend, whom the Terrible One had bid her obey. “Mr.--the Regent”, he whispered. “I don't know him. What is your name? _My_ name is--” “Oh, you muddle-headed cat! Don't you know the dark man with the black moles--quick!” “_Sh-h-h_--he is sleeping”. “Gawd! is he though? Come, show me! I've got a old appointment--” She led the way: the two corridors--the door--the room, he treading on air, brow up, eyes on fire, knife bright and ready; and eight feet from the couch she put out her forefinger, pointing, smiling, Hogarth's face toward them, his mouth pouting in sleep, bosom breathing, a breeze in his hair. From the lips of Harris, in the faintest snake-hiss, proceeded, “Sleep, my little one-sleep, my pretty one--_sleep_--” and with a wrist as graceful as the spring of a tigress he had the knife buried in Hogarth's left breast.