she added, turning to Miss Lord, "that your patient's illness has not taken a serious form?"
There was an awful pause. The medical woman knew when she had got a good thing, and was in no hurry to begin.
"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
