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Up shot Frankl's shivering arms, while Hogarth, training his ermines and purples, paced away. That was on the day following the Manifesto. By the time Frankl's three loaves had become one, that amazement with which men received the Manifesto had commenced to give place to more coherent impressions.
Frankl's Bank was scanning the agents' yacht-lists for her, when Sir Moses Cohen, who was closely associated with Frankl, placed his own three-master at her disposal; and she set out from Bristol, with her being three Jewish ladies, Frankl's manager, and a snuffy Portuguese rabbi who resembled a Rembrandt portrait. Hogarth was interrupted by a telephone bell. "Well?" he answered.
Frankl, however, was never destined to taste those five hundred dollar mouthfuls. "Not for Joe", was Frankl's answer: "pay the Pirate his taxes and be done". "It could be worked as sweet as a nut, sir!" persisted the skipper, with a watering mind. "Well, so long us you take the risk, perhaps but no, sir, I'd rather not".
She could see no carriage in that dark, yet it stood only some yards away Frankl's own. "I think I prefer to stand..." said she. "As you like. But with regard to the gun, I should have thought that you could have guessed how it was but no, you always mistrust me instead the Jew. Don't you know that the dead man was a servant in my house?
The agonized thought in Frankl's brain was this: "Well, what's the good of prisons, then?" he, too earnest a financier to read newspaper gossip, having heard not a word of the three escapes from Colmoor. He said: "Well, sir, generally speaking, I'm the last to encourage this sort of thing; but, as yours is a special case, I tell you plain out that, personally, I don't mean a bit of harm to you.
"Yes", she whispered, her large form towering above Frankl's, yet awe of him widening her eyes. "What's your name?" said he. "My name is Rachel Oppenheimer", said she. "All right: come up and dress". She followed him up to a back room, where was a lamp, a glass, etc., and on an old settee evening-dress complete, shoes, roses, head- wrap.
"Why, it is the Jew's hand!" she thought, for the letters were angular in the German manner, making a general similarity with Frankl's writing. Curiosity overcame her: she opened, and saw... "Oh, well, this is generous though, after all!" she exclaimed.
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 next morning the Degree was conferred in the theatre, Doctor of Common Law "an appropriate one", the Master of Balliol remarked, "though 'Surgeon' would perhaps be the mot juste"; and thus at last Hogarth donned cap-and-tassel, though not Frankl's a livery which drew from Harris the reflection: "Sweet beauty! in his mortarboard". The nip upon the brow of the college-cap peak resembled the nip of the Scotch prison-cap, awaking memories: but the symbolism was different.
He was now, after long reflection, convinced that he was the victim of a plot of Baruch Frankl's: yet in his heart was little rancour against Frankl, nor, when he wrote his "V E N", was he thinking specially of Frankl hardly knew of whom, or what.
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