"The critical period will be within the next twenty-four hours," came the reply. "If she gets over to-morrow night, she will probably recover."
Ena Pollen held her breath, while her brows narrowed, and she made a strange grimace.
"Well, Miss Propert, you won't fail to let me know how my friend is—will you?"
"Of course not," was the reply. "I hope she will be better to-morrow morning. But—well, personally, I entertain but little hope. I have never seen a worse case of diphtheria."
Ena hung up the receiver, and crossing the room, took a long sniff at her smelling-salts.
Then, going back to the telephone, she rang up Lilla, and said briefly:
"Our poor friend is very bad indeed. I'll let you know how she is in the morning. Is Bernard there?"
"No; he's just gone back," answered her friend.
"Well, I want you both to dine here to-morrow night. Will you?"
"Why?"