“Admirably.” “You will keep your part of the bargain?” “Certainly.” “Then you will give a certificate of death?” “For the sake of appearances, I should like to see the child again in the morning, but I am as sure that death has already taken place as that I am now talking to you. In the morning I can write the certificate.” “What cause will you give for death?” asked the woman. “Collapse from cardiac failure.” “I shall stay here to-night,” said Nurse Ives. “Do so, nurse. I should wish you to stay for the next day or two, as you will probably have to look after the mother. She is certain to be terribly prostrated; I am going to her now. I sent Miss Evershed to break the news to her.” “That is a kind girl, a fine girl,” said Nurse Ives. As she spoke she raised her eyes and fixed them on Tarbot’s face. Her glance took him by surprise. He looked away, and a dull red crept into the woman’s face. She tightened her thin lips, and there came an ominous gleam in her pale blue eyes. “Is Sir Richard here?” she asked after a moment. “No, he has gone. By the way, nurse, don’t throw away that last bottle of medicine.” “You had better take it with you, Dr. Tarbot.” “No, I will not do that. Leave it where it can be got when the moment arrives. Put it into the cupboard and lock the cupboard. Mrs. Pelham will not change the arrangement of the room for some time. I shall write a certificate of death in the morning.” Once again Tarbot strode up to the bed and looked at the body. The child was now faintly smiling with that ineffable smile of peace which death seems always to give. Heaving a brief sigh of satisfaction, Tarbot turned on his heel and left the room. CHAPTER VIII. THE LONG TRUNK. It was certified that Piers Pelham, baronet, aged seven, had come by his death owing to cardiac failure. The certificate to this effect was duly signed by the well-known Dr. Tarbot, one of the cleverest and most rising doctors in Harley Street. The great specialists who had been called in to see the child expressed no surprise when they heard of the death; only one of them remarked that he did not think the end would have come quite so soon. In other quarters there was a certain amount of gossip. Dick Pelham was considered wonderfully lucky. Before the child’s death he had been a mere nobody—a briefless barrister with the ordinary chances of a moderate success. Now he was a man of vast importance—the baronetcy was one of the oldest in England, and the acres which belonged to the title large, fair, and widely spread.