Next to the executioner stood his wife—the former Mrs. She saw herself begin a slow, sinuous dance: and stop suddenly in the middle of a figure, conscious that the dance was not impromptu, her own, but native—the same dance she had quitted but a few minutes gone. Almost at the same moment the door opened and Brendon entered, followed by the doctor. “My dear friend,” she laughed, “not so tragic, if you please. It was such an unexpected stroke of fortune. It takes too many years to climb even a step in the social ladder. When any violent outrage was committed,—and such matters were of daily, sometimes hourly, occurrence,—a bell, the rope of which descended into the hall, brought the whole of the turnkeys to their assistance. Time enough to do so when she has her affairs settled—if she can settle them.
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