“TARBOT WILL TELL ME.”
When Pelham left his wife he went into the Park. It was a foggy evening
with frost in the air, and the fog was densest in the Park, as it always
is. He walked under the trees watching the gas lamps, which shone feebly
through the foggy atmosphere. He did not heed where he was going, his
whole soul was absorbed in anxious thought. There were no nervous
terrors now visible on his face. He held himself erect, and walked
quickly. After a time he stood still under a lamp post, a look of
resolution and strength visiting his face.
“I’ll do it,” he said to himself. “I’ll do it, and I won’t waste another
moment. The time has come for action, and I will act.”
He left the Park, walked rapidly to the nearest telegraph office and
sent a telegram to his wife:—
“Don’t sit up for me should I be late.—Pelham.”
This being despatched, he walked as fast as he could in the direction of
Ashley Mansions. He ran up the steps of the well-known house and rang
the bell.
The old butler smiled with pleasure when he saw his face.
“My mistress is dining at present, sir; but she’ll be sure to see you.
This way, Sir Richard.”
The man ushered him into the big dining-room. It was a somber apartment,
with a dark, old-fashioned flock paper on the walls and heavy moreen
curtains to the windows. The house was lit throughout with electric
light, but even that failed to make the room look cheerful. A portrait
of little Piers done by a celebrated painter had the place of honor over
the mantelpiece. The picture had been executed about six months before
the child’s death. The boy in rich velvet, a Vandyke collar surrounding
his soft little neck, his dark hair flung back from his brow, was
standing with one arm over the neck of a favorite boarhound. He was
looking straight out into the world with his eager—almost too
eager—gaze. The eyes, like those in every good portrait, followed the
inmates of the room.
As Pelham entered they fixed themselves immediately on him. The young
man was startled. He had forgotten that this speaking portrait of Piers
existed. His heart gave a bound, he looked up at the picture as though
he meant to say something reassuring to it. The sparkling, vivid,
lifelike glance continued to follow the young man. Mrs. Pelham, who was
seated at a small table just under the picture and close to the fire,
rose and went to meet him.
“Now, Dick, this is nice and friendly,” she cried. “Sit down. You’ll
have dinner with me, won’t you?”
“I shall be very pleased,” answered Pelham.
“Lay a place at once for Sir Richard,” said Mrs. Pelham, turning to the
butler.
The man hurried off to obey. A moment latter Pelham was pretending to
eat; inwardly he was all on wires. The portrait with its speaking eyes
oppressed him, he longed to be in another room.
At last the meal came to an end.
“Serve coffee in the drawing-room,” said Mrs. Pelham to the butler.
“Will you come this way, Dick! It is so kind of you to come back
informally, just like you used to do in the old days when dear little
Piers was alive.”
“I came back because I wanted to ask you a question,” said Pelham.
“What is it?” asked Mrs. Pelham.
“I want to go up to Piers’s nursery.”
“Of course you can, my dear fellow; but what for?”
“Has the room been disarranged since his death?”
“Put in order, Dick—nothing more. I am not going to have that dear room
touched, at any rate, not for a long time. By and by when you have a
little son of your own, he shall come and stay here and——”
Mrs. Pelham’s tears flowed.
“Don’t talk of it, don’t think of it,” said Pelham. “This death has been
a frightful blow to me. I must tell you what I feel about it. There are
moments when I am almost inclined to shirk the whole thing—to go away. I
hate the property which has come to me through the child’s death.”
“It is very good of you to feel like that, but you must get over it,
Dick—you must really. Even though he was my son I cannot let his death
ruin your life. But now, what do you want to go to his room for?”
“Must I tell you?”
“Not if you would rather not. Perhaps you wish me to give you something
to remember him by, and I will with pleasure. Shall I come with you?”
“I would rather go alone, and I will tell you quite frankly the reason:
I wish to examine the boy’s medicine bottles.”
Mrs. Pelham started back.
“What in the world do you mean?” she exclaimed.
“I am dreadfully sorry to distress you,” said Pelham, “but I am
particularly anxious to see the bottle out of which Piers had his last
dose of medicine. Is it still up-stairs?”
“It is not. Of course, my dear Dick, I would gratify you if I could.”
“I have been anxious for some time to see that last bottle of medicine.”
“Why so?”
“A nervous man’s fears. Don’t ask me more.”
“Your fears, Dick?”
Mrs. Pelham’s eyes became dilated with a queer expression of intense
distress.
“Don’t think anything about it,” he answered. “I am nervous; and to have
that special medicine analyzed would set my mind at rest. I know that
the medicines were always kept in a cupboard in the dressing-room. Let
me go to that cupboard. Give me the key.”
“But this is most alarming,” said Mrs. Pelham. “I think you must be out
of your mind.”
“Let me have the key of the cupboard.”
“The cupboard is open, and the medicines have been removed. Dr. Tarbot
was here a fortnight ago. He asked me to give him the key of that
special cupboard. He told me that there was something peculiar about
Piers’s death—of course we all know that he died of acute heart disease,
or something of the sort, but Dr. Tarbot was anxious to make copious
notes of the case, and he had lost one of the prescriptions. He took all
the medicine bottles away.”
While Mrs. Pelham was speaking Dick’s face grew hard and gray.
“If that is the case there is no use in troubling you,” he said. “Tarbot
will tell me what I desire to know. Good night.”