As Pelham entered they fixed themselves immediately on him. The young man was startled. He had forgotten that this speaking portrait of Piers existed. His heart gave a bound, he looked up at the picture as though he meant to say something reassuring to it. The sparkling, vivid, lifelike glance continued to follow the young man. Mrs. Pelham, who was seated at a small table just under the picture and close to the fire, rose and went to meet him. “Now, Dick, this is nice and friendly,” she cried. “Sit down. You’ll have dinner with me, won’t you?” “I shall be very pleased,” answered Pelham. “Lay a place at once for Sir Richard,” said Mrs. Pelham, turning to the butler. The man hurried off to obey. A moment latter Pelham was pretending to eat; inwardly he was all on wires. The portrait with its speaking eyes oppressed him, he longed to be in another room. At last the meal came to an end. “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. “What is it?” asked Mrs. Pelham. “I want to go up to Piers’s nursery.” “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——” Mrs. Pelham’s tears flowed. “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?” “Must I tell you?” “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.” Mrs. Pelham started back. “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.” “Why so?” “A nervous man’s fears. Don’t ask me more.” “Your fears, Dick?” Mrs. Pelham’s eyes became dilated with a queer expression of intense distress.