“Is it—is it diphtheria?” quavered Mrs. Wilcox.
Still the medical woman sat silent, with every eye fixed on her.
“Oh, do tell us! Tell us the worst,” pleaded Mrs. Wilcox. “Is she going to die?”
“She will live,” said the medical woman solemnly. “She will live—to die on the scaffold.”
“Gracious Heavens!” exclaimed everyone simultaneously.
“Yes, ladies. To die on the scaffold. I repeat it. Prudence Semaphore is, I fear—a murderess.”
Mrs. Wilcox screamed.
“Miss Lord, Miss Lord,” she cried. “Pray be careful. Do not say such dreadful things. Miss Semaphore and her sister came to me with the highest recommendations, and you really—”
“Aye,” said the medical woman, with stately and awful triumph, “she came with her sister—where is her sister now?”
“At the seaside somewhere, I suppose. She did not leave me her address,” said Mrs. Wilcox weakly.