This rather sobered the medical woman.
“Well,” she said, more conciliatingly, “what do you suggest should be done?”
“I think,” said Mrs. Dumaresq, “I think it would be more diplomatic to wait until this trial, or whatever it is, comes off. If Miss Semaphore is alive, I should think it certain she will turn up at it. Or perhaps, indeed, the suspicion of the authorities has already fallen on Prudence. We don’t really know why the detectives are after her. Let us wait. Let us go to that trial and hear what comes out. If she does not clear herself of this charge, whatever it may be, and if her sister does not put in an appearance, I think it might be well for you, Mrs. Wilcox, to suggest to the prosecuting counsel that he should cross-examine her as to her sister’s whereabouts. Then, if she cannot give satisfactory replies, and if anything to her disadvantage comes out, she will probably be suspected, and the whole affair will be gone into without our making ourselves responsible in any way.”
“That,” said Mrs. Wilcox, “I consider to be an excellent idea. And now, ladies, I beg of you not to let a word of all this escape you. In a house like ours, one cannot be too careful. Until we really know the truth, there is no use in telling anyone what we think. Will you all promise me to be silent about it?”
Mrs. Dumaresq and Mrs. Whitley agreed, and after some persuasion a reluctant consent was won from the medical woman, who promised to hold her tongue, until after the trial, any way.
CHAPTER XX.
NOTICE TO QUIT.
With the curious intuition common to the sick, Prudence felt that something was wrong. There was an atmosphere of unrest about her.
She noted the frown on the brow of Mrs. Wilcox and the hardness of her tone when she asked her how she felt, and if she thought she would be able to sit up for a while to-morrow, though Mrs. Wilcox did her best to speak in her natural voice.
She remarked the averted face of her old enemy, the medical woman, but she was too prostrate to heed them, or to enquire if anything unpleasant had occurred.
She did not seem to mind much what happened now. Justice was probably on her track. She was a criminal hiding from the law. She would be hunted down, exposed, put to public shame. Augusta—her poor Augusta—how was she? In what condition would she be found? Tears of sorrow and weakness gushed from the eyes of the afflicted lady, but the rest and quiet and the absence of fresh agitation gradually calmed her nerves, and she had leisure to reflect on her course of action. There was nothing for it but to come forward, if compelled, and speak the whole truth. She had had enough of subterfuges and prevarications. She would tell her story—they might believe it or not as they liked. She thought, in the apathy of despair, they probably wouldn’t—time would tell, for surely Augusta, if ever she became able to speak, would confirm her testimony—granted she had not lost her memory of the events connected with her previous life. There would be two or three years to wait probably, but that could not be helped. She might, meantime, be cast into prison. For that she was prepared. With the courage of despair she braced herself to meet whatever fate might have in store for her. At any rate, it could not be worse than the tortures she had already endured.