See now a shocking scrimmage, a rush and crush for precedence, surge upon surge of men jostling each other in a struggle to get near him, sticks reaching awkwardly over heads to inflict far forceless blows, and on his face the fists; a hundred roaring “Order!”, fighting against the tide; three hundred shrieking, “Kill him!” “Have him done with!” “Dash out his brains!”, and pressing to that job. Sergeant-at-Arms, meanwhile, Clerk-attending-the-Table, and the physician, had run to give the alarm; but it was by one of those miracles of wild minutes, when turbulent sprites appear to mix themselves in the business of men, worse--embroiling the embroiled, that through the throng in the street rushed the word that the Regent was being killed: and quick, before any fatal blow had been struck, the rabble were there in that chamber, having brushed away every barrier. They imagined themselves come to save: in reality they came to kill--were, in fact, too many for the area of the room, so that men succumbed fast as by plague-stroke under trampling feet, and even after twenty minutes when sixty-seven lay mangled the scene of horror could not be said to be ended. Early upon the irruption the physician, three policemen, a Reading Clerk, and the Bishop of Durham, had managed to extricate and drag the Regent out; and through the shouting of the outside crowd he was driven home unconscious. L THE DECISION Somewhat before this hour Admiral O'Hara had arrived at Croydon, a lust, a morbid curiosity, now working in this man--having committed the ineffable sin, to enjoy its fruit by hearing what Richard Hogarth now said, in what precise way he groaned, or raved, smiled, or wept, or stormed; for he was cruelly in love with Hogarth. All the way had come with him the _Mahomet's_ treasurer, with his bag of wealth--and two pistols. So at Dieppe O'Harra had wired to Harris: “Meet me at Croydon to-night, the 9.45 from Newhaven, as you love life. Most important. Shall expect wire from you at the London and Paris Hotel, Newhaven, not later than six, saying yes”. But at Newhaven he had found no answer--Harris, in fact, not having received the telegram, having already inflicted his stab, and fled the Palace. Whereupon O'Hara, in an agony of doubt, had telegraphed Frankl from Newhaven: “For God's sake find Harris. Make him meet me at Croydon to-night in the 9.45 from Newhaven. Do not fail”. Now, Frankl knew exactly where Harris was--hiding in the Market Street house. And he said to himself: “All right: it's got something to do with money, and a lot of it, too, with all this 'God's sake'. Suppose we _both_ go to Croydon?” Hence Frankl missed the joy of seeing the Regent mobbed: for at 9.30 he was waiting with Harris on the Croydon up-platform. And as the train stopped, they two hurried into the compartment where O'Hara sat alone. “You, my friend?” said O'Hara to Frankl.