He conducted O'Hara, till the two towers of Westring were visible; pointed them out; then went back, and in an hour had finished his work on the diamonds. O'Hara, meantime, going on his way alone, muttered: “You go fast, Hogarth: prelates of the Church your errand boys? But there is a little fellow called Alf Harris...if he had seen what I have seen to-night, you would be a corpse now”. In twenty minutes he was at Westring, which he knew well, for twenty-five years before he had lived in the Vale: but he supposed that Lord Westring de Broom was still the inmate. He asked to see “the young lady”, persisted, and after a time Rebekah came with eyebrows of inquiry. The moment O'Hara saw her well, his visage acquired a ghastly ribbed fixity. Even before this, _she_, by one flashed glance, had known him. But she took the envelope with easy coolness. And, instead of then returning upon her steps, went still beyond, and whispered to two men in the hall: “Do not let that man pass out!” As she again returned inward past O'Hara, she remarked: “You might wait here a little”. She travelled then, not hurrying, down the breadth of a great apartment to a side room where her father sat, capped and writing; and she said: “Papa, the man who assaulted me in the train is now in the hall. As his sentence was three years, he must have escaped--” She was gone at once, the unaddressed envelope, still unopened, shivering a little in her hand. Frankl leapt up, rather pale, thinking that if the man had come _here_, he must mean mischief; but remembering that the man was a gentleman, a priest, he took heart, and went out. O'Hara, meantime, stood at bay, guessing his exit blocked, while the terrors of death gat hold upon him, the flesh of his yellow jaw shivering. But he was a man of stern mind--stern as the rocky aspect of his face, and the moment he saw Frankl coming (he had seen him in the Court), he started to meet him--stooped to the Jew's ear, who shrank delicately from contact. “There isn't any good in running me down, sir”, he whispered in sycophant haste. “I pledge you my word I came here without knowing to whom. O do, now! I have already suffered for my crime; and if you attempt to capture me, I do assure you, I strangle you where you stand! Do, now! I only brought a letter--” Frankl, half inclined to tyrannize over misery, and half afraid, swept his hand down the beard. “Letter?” said he: “from whom?” “From a friend”. “Which friend?” “A man named Hogarth”. O'Hara said it in an awful whisper, though not aware of any relation between Hogarth and Frankl. Whereupon an agitation waved down Frankl's beard. The news that “a man named Hogarth” had written to his daughter would hardly have suggested _Richard_--safe elsewhere; but, one night at Yarmouth, he had seen Richard Hogarth inexplicably kiss his daughter's hand. “Hogarth?” said he: “what Christian name?” “Richard”.