The boy’s father had died while hunting a month before his birth. He had never been the reigning baronet. The reigning baronet was an old man, who had passed from life when little Piers was a year old. From that time the boy was Sir Piers Pelham. If he died the title would go to Dick Pelham, who was his second cousin.
On a certain evening, about a week after the events related in the last chapter, Luke Tarbot, when he entered his house in Harley Street, found a note awaiting him. It was from 12 Ashley Mansions, and ran as follows:
“DEAR LUKE,—I wish you would look round as soon as possible. That new medicine you have given Piers does not suit him. He is feverish and unwell. The nurse has kept him in bed to-day. He is not the least like himself. I feel strangely anxious.
Having read the note Tarbot went into his dining-room and rang the bell. His servant answered his summons.
“Have dinner served at once, Peters,” said his master.
The man withdrew, and a few moments later the doctor was enjoying an exquisitely cooked meal. He was an epicure and always ate deliberately.
Having finished and enjoyed the refreshment of a cigar, he put on his overcoat and went to Ashley Mansions. The door was opened by a footman in the Pelham livery. The doctor asked for Mrs. Pelham.
“My mistress is in the drawing-room, sir. She has been looking out for you very anxiously, Dr. Tarbot.”
He left his hat and overcoat in the hall, and a moment later was ushered into Mrs. Pelham’s presence. She was a little woman, with rosy cheeks and bright, dark eyes. She had the eager, affectionate manner of a person whose heart overbalances her mind.
“I am so glad to see you, doctor,” she cried. “Please sit down. Piers has had a very queer fainting fit this afternoon. I do not like the state he is in at all.”
“She came yesterday. I don’t much like her, and I don’t think the child does either.”
“Oh, she is an excellent nurse,” said Tarbot, frowning; “one of the very best I have on my staff. I’ll go up and have a look at the child.”
Mrs. Pelham took the doctor up-stairs herself. The bedroom occupied by the small baronet was luxuriously furnished in the style best calculated to please a child.
Just beyond it was a dressing-room, but the little baronet slept, as well as played, in his nursery. He was sitting up in bed now, with flushed cheeks. He was a remarkably pretty boy, with soft black hair, eyes dark as night, and a velvety skin of the purest olive. The moment his mother appeared he called out to her in a high, ringing tone,—