“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”.
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. Just step into a room here, and let us talk the matter quietly over”.
He led O'Hara to his study; and there they two remained locked half an hour, conferring head to head.