“I am not. In a matter of this sort there is no good in lingering over things. From what you have told me it is only a mere matter of form. The child of course swallowed the hyocene. Pelham will be committed for trial in a few days. You, of course, Dr. Tarbot, will be served with a subpœna to appear as witness for the prosecution. Your wife will also have a notice to appear.” “Who instructs for the defense?” asked Tarbot. “Wilkinson; and Merriman is the barrister. Merriman is the best criminal barrister we have, but he cannot fight a case like ours, although he will do his best.” “Why did we not secure him?” said Tarbot, knitting his brows. “Oh, I think highly of my own man; and in any case Merriman had been previously retained for the defense.” “It is a great pity we did not get him,” repeated Tarbot. The lawyer said nothing. The doctor bade him good-by, and took his leave. Tarbot went straight to see Mrs. Pelham. He told her briefly what had occurred, gave her a _resumé_ of the present aspect of the case, and sitting down by her side, looked at her. The widow’s expression was nervous and worn to the last degree. “You are not well,” he said. She burst into tears. “I wish I had never done it,” she cried. “Done what, my dear madam?” “What I have done—prosecuted Dick. I have broken the heart of the bravest girl in the world.” Tarbot could not help shivering. “Do you allude to Lady Pelham?” “I do, Luke. She was here this afternoon. How splendidly she spoke, and how grand was her trust in her husband! Are you quite sure that Dick—Dick, who has the most open face in the world—did commit such a dastardly crime?” “Think for yourself. Go over the evidence,” said Tarbot. “Oh, I have; but somehow lately I cannot think about it. My head gets giddy, and I am leaving it all to you. I wish I were dead and in the grave with my murdered boy.” “I pity you sincerely,” said Tarbot. “You must stay quiet and hope for the best. It is too late to change matters now, and it would be very wrong, very wrong indeed, to leave the child’s death unavenged.” He stayed for a few moments longer, and then took his leave. On the following morning, amongst several letters which lay on his breakfast table, Tarbot received one from his wife. He had not noticed Clara’s absence on the previous evening. She was often away from dinner lately, her health being far from good. Occasionally she spent whole days in bed. He used to hear her coughing, but he never went to her. When he saw her letter, however, on the breakfast table, he could not help giving a start. It bore a country postmark. He opened it and read the following words: