Rebekah had, in fact, before setting out to the _rendezvous_ at nine, seen her father and O'Hara return to the Hall, bearing the bag between them; and, she, crouching at the side door, as before, had heard them talk, arranging details. Her father had then said that before he could write any document, he must either ring or go search for paper: and suddenly she had heard an oath, a thud, a scuffle, had turned the key, softly entered, seen the men struggling against the other door, a revolver, held by the muzzle, in O'Hara's hand; and before she had been sighted by the two desperate men, had had the bag, lying near on an escritoire, and was gone. She had then sent some servants to the scene, and hurried to her chamber. Later she had heard that O'Hara had escaped through a window, and that her father was raving below in a sort of fit: for Frankl supposed that O'Hara had the jewels, as O'Hara that Frankl had them; and after tending her father, she had dashed out to the _rendezvous_, the jewels then in her room. As for Hogarth, he did not neglect her warning: and, having left a note for O'Hara, telling him where to find him, at Loveday's, took a late train southwards. By what marvel Rebekah had become possessed of the jewels he did not even seek to fathom; but one of his uppermost feelings was shame for having suspected O'Hara of stealing them: and for years could never be got to believe in the bad faith of the prelate, his tutor. Near midnight, on reaching the obscure townlet of Hadston, he there took a bed--not to sleep. At the tiny inn-window he made periodic arrivals, looked out unseeing at a cart, a wall of flint and Flemish brick, and a moonlit country, then weighed anchor, and swerved away on another voyage; then arrived anew, looked out, saw nothing, and weighed. He walked now in the dark of the valley of humiliation, with those words written in flame in his brain: “This is my favoured lot--my exaltation to afflictions high”: he had allowed a woman to say them to him, and he went “_I!_” He, the richest of men, was, therefore, that night poorer than any wretch, brought right down, naked, exposed to death, and he filled that chamber with his moans: “God have mercy upon me! a vulgar rich man...a dreadful contented clown....” But toward morning he lay calmer, weeping like Peter, and at peace. Being without money, he sent the next day a small stone to Loveday, asking him to sell it; also to meet old Tom Bates on the night appointed, and keep him till he, Hogarth, came to London. Four days later he received the money in the name of “Mr. Beech”, but the old Bates had not kept the _rendezvous_; and a month later a detective agency discovered that the fisher was dead. At Hadston Hogarth remained two months, the most occupied man anywhere, yet passing for a lounger in the townlet.