vague. I felt that something was wrong, but did not know what that something was. The confusion of manner of Prudence Semaphore, her refusal to say plainly what ailed her sister, her reluctance to call in a doctor, and the extraordinarily small amount of nourishment she provided for her, were all remarkable. Then she would let no one see her. She put you off, Mrs. Wilcox, and she burst into quite a rage when, in the interests of humanity, I desired to visit the poor neglected sufferer. No doubt by that time Miss Semaphore was beyond human help, for now I recall, there was an indescribable air of guilt about that unhappy woman, and she showed a ferocity of character for which I had not given her credit. Still, I said nothing. Then came the discovery that Miss Semaphore had disappeared. That threw me off the scent for a time. I am always disposed to think as well of other people as possible, and while her leaving the house so suddenly and mysteriously seemed to point to her having a dangerous and possibly infectious illness, and being smuggled out of the way by Prudence, I did not seriously think she was dead. Our search of the room revealed nothing. The renewed calm of
