“Sir”, she blurted out at once, “you will help me, I know. I am a poor unfortunate woman—my name is Margaret Hogarth—”
“We know!” said the gentleman, and, approaching Frankl's ear, asked in Yiddish: “How long has she had her delusion?”
“Only about a week, I think. She may be violent at first, but—”
“Come in, Miss—Hogarth”, said the gentleman.
Margaret passed the threshold; the doors closed upon her...
XII. — THE ROSE
On the third morning of his confinement in Norwich, Hogarth was hurried into the hall of justice and the witness-box—in the dock Fred Bates.
Bates had denied—with sufficient impudence, it seemed: for his wife had been found dead, battered and burned about the face, Bates' own hand also burned by the poker with which, red-hot, he was presumed to have beaten her.