“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.
“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——”
“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?”
“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.”
“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.”
“A nervous man’s fears. Don’t ask me more.”
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.”
“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.”