Nurse Ives rose and went into the other room. She soon returned with a small bottle which contained some white powder. Tarbot slipped the bottle into his pocket. “Pelham is in the toils,” he said grimly. “You are prepared to swear that he was alone in the room with the child when he took the last dose?” “I am; but need we enter into the subject now?” “No, no. You look worn out. Are your nerves troubling you, nurse?” “They are a little. I am overdone. I did not think I should find it so hard. I did it for your sake, remember. I have imperiled my soul for you.” A sneer crossed Tarbot’s lips. He did not reply at all to this statement. “When is the funeral to be?” asked the nurse. “On Saturday.” The woman gave a shudder. “You are trembling. I must give you a tonic,” said Tarbot with some anxiety. “I do not need any tonic. I shall be all right when the funeral has taken place—that is all. Where is the child to be buried?” “In the family vault in Devonshire. There is a chapel attached to Pelham Towers, and a consecrated graveyard—the vault of the Pelhams is there.” An involuntary smile crossed the woman’s face, and she turned her head aside. “Are you going to attend the funeral?” she asked. “Mrs. Pelham wishes it. I would do anything to please her—poor soul.” Clara Ives smiled again. “What is the matter with you?” Tarbot continued. “When I speak of the funeral of a child who has died in his babyhood, a child whose life meant much and whose mother is broken-hearted, it seems strange that you should smile.” “There are hidden nerves which one cannot always control,” said the nurse with an air of wisdom. “Oh, come, Clara, you need not talk science to me.” “Of course not. You know a great deal more than I do.” “And yet you are very well informed for a nurse.” “That is true. Remember, I was with Dr. Weismann in Paris for a year.” “He was a clever man, but a humbug.” “I don’t think so.” “We need not say anything more about it now,” said Tarbot, rising. “We need not,” she answered. “I know a little science, a smattering which comes in usefully on occasions. When I am your wife you will perhaps instruct me further.” “Are you eager that I should do so—to lift the curtain more, to study the awful, the terrible problem?” “Apart from your love, that is the one and only subject which fascinates me,” replied Nurse Ives. “Well, well, our tastes agree in this matter. You have quite made up your mind not to take another case?” “I have told you so.” “It seems a pity. I must be going now; I will look in again in a few days.” “I shall not take another case, and you must not go away just yet.” “I must. I have a patient to see at ten o’clock.” “Your patient will have to wait.” “My dear good Clara! I, a doctor, keep a patient waiting! You forget yourself.” “No; but you, Luke, forget yourself.” “I fail to understand you.”