“He’s a murderer!” said Betty sharply.
She stood with her hand on the back of her mother’s chair and her tall figure seemed to tower. The doctor gave her a shrewd glance.
“You love heroics, Elizabeth,” her brother replied with a drawl, but his face turned white—a danger signal.
Betty did not look at him; she fixed her eyes on the doctor.
“Will he die?” she asked, and her voice was perfectly controlled.
Radcliffe was thoughtful and did not answer for a moment.
“There is one chance in a thousand,” he said, “there would have been more, but this political stir and hubbub has compelled them to spirit him away, and a journey—” he shrugged his shoulders; “I should say six feet of earth, madam, would end it.”
She drew her breath sharply; to her all the candles in the room seemed to be revolving in a death-dance.
“He ought to die,” said Spencer piously, “a Jacobite and a renegade. By Saint Thomas, we’re well rid of him!”
“La, how romantic it is!” Lady Sunderland said, shuffling her cards and glaring at her simpering rival.