The question at the bottom of his mind had been this: “Does Margaret, too, go with the land?” But he did not utter it even to himself: went out, fingering the crop, stalking toward the spot where he had left the man and the woman. But Margaret was then coming through the wood; Frankl had gone up to the Hall; and Hogarth crossed the bridge and went climbing toward the mansion.
It was a Friday evening, and up at the Hall the Sabbath had commenced, two Sabbath-tapers shining now upon the Mezuzzah at the dining-room door, Frankl being of the Cohanîm, the priestly class—a Jew of Jews. As he had passed in, two Moghrabîm Jews had saluted him with: “Shabbath”; and mildly he had replied: “Shabbath”.
But swift upon his steps strode Hogarth: Hogarth was at the lodge-gates—was on the drive—was in the hall.
But, since Frankl was just preparing to celebrate the kiddush, “He cannot be seen now”, said a man in the hall.
“He must”, said Hogarth.
As he brushed past, two men raised an outcry: but Hogarth continued his swift way, and had half traversed a salon hung with a chaos of cut-glass when from a side-door appeared the inquiring face of Frankl in pious skull-cap.
“What is it?” he cried—“I cannot be seen—”
He recognized the man of the towing-path, and on his face grew a look of scare, as he backed toward a study: but before he could slam the door, Hogarth, too, was within.
“Who are you? What is it?” whined Frankl, who was both hard master and cringing slave.
Hogarth produced the Circular: but of Margaret not a word.