In the duchess’ dressing-room a little throng of ladies-in-waiting and intimate friends welcomed her warmly. Deep concern sat upon every face as they listened to the hysterical cries and moans, in which the patient in the adjoining bedroom gave expression to her sufferings, and the broken exclamations and fierce invectives by which she called upon her doctors and attendants to bear witness to the ingratitude and perfidy of the queen, and the baseness of her minions. While Prue hesitated about intruding, the doctor and the apothecary came out. The former hurried away with a red face and air of offended dignity, and his satellite only lingered long enough to assure the ladies that her grace, having refused to be blooded and having ordered the two medicos from her presence under pain of a drenching with their own potions, nothing could be done for her until she could be brought into a more reasonable mood. "I must see her at once," said Prue, with decision. "I have a cure for her malady far more efficacious than all the court physicians’ nostrums." "Why, do you come from the queen? Has she found her diamond necklace?" A dozen eager questioners crowded about her, but with a smile of mysterious but encouraging significance, Prue reiterated her demand and at last escaped from further interrogation, by making her way unannounced into the presence of the duchess. The great lady lay upon her bed, her disordered dress and disheveled hair revealing the ravages of time, which she usually disguised with so much skill. Her tire-women vainly attempted to soothe her by chafing her feet and hands and fanning her flushed and swollen face. "Who is that?" she screamed, catching sight of Prue. "Go away—I can not see any one—I am very ill—I am dying! Make haste to pay your court to Masham—Masham! the creature I raised out of the mire—the kitchen-wench, who will queen it to-morrow when I am dead! Oh! oh! oh!" And the hysterics were resumed with wilder frenzy than ever. "Leave her to me," said Prue to the women. "I can cure her, but I must have her to myself for a few minutes." They looked from one to the other with bewildered eyes, wondering at Prue’s audacity, yet unable to resist her calm tone of authority. When they had withdrawn to the farther end of the room, she bent over the shrieking, raving duchess, and said, in a quiet, penetrating voice, "The necklace is not lost, it is quite safe." The cries ceased with almost ludicrous suddenness. "What do you say?" gasped the patient. "I will tell you all about it as soon as you are able to lie still and listen," said Prue, who had laid her plans on her way from Essex Street, and had her story all ready. The duchess quieted down and turned her face partly toward her. "Is that Prudence Brooke?" she asked. "If you know anything about that accursed necklace, tell me quickly, before it is the death of me."