“It is this. It is known in the club that I signed a _post obit_ a fortnight before the death of my little cousin.” Tarbot slightly shifted his position. “I did not know that the rumor had got afloat,” he said. “I am certainly innocent of propagating it. But are you sure it is known?” “Yes. I was first told of it by Carroll, whom I met at the hotel at Glion, where my wife and I stayed. He begged me to return to London as quickly as possible in order to contradict the gossip which was afloat. I did come back, and I find on my arrival that matters are even more unpleasant than I had believed possible.” Tarbot laughed. “How the rumor got about is more than I can tell you,” he replied. “I can only assure you once more that I am not responsible. I should naturally wish to hide a matter in which I myself am implicated. You understand, Pelham, that it affects me as much as you. My advice to you is this: don’t take the slightest notice. Live it down—there is nothing in it.” “It is unpleasant and undesirable,” said Dick, “and the man who has caused it to be spread is my enemy.” “Then find him,” said Tarbot lightly. “Find him, and vent your spleen upon him. Will you change your mind and have a cigar? I can recommend this brand.” “No, thank you. I only smoke with my friends.” “What am I to understand by that?” asked Tarbot. As he spoke he looked Dick full in the face. “I thought we were friends,” continued Tarbot after a moment’s pause. “No,” answered Dick. “I must be frank at a moment like the present. I dislike you, Dr. Tarbot. I have an antipathy to you—what is more, I distrust you.” “You must give me a reason for those last words. Why do you distrust me?” “I intend to speak fully. The child’s death has distressed me much. Yesterday I got a copy of the certificate.” “Why?” “Because I am not satisfied with the reason you gave for the death.” “Did you ever qualify as a medical man?” “Never; but I use my common sense, and I repeat that I am not satisfied with the reason you gave for the death.” “Why?” “You state that the boy died from heart disease.” “He did—from aortic disease.” “But I say that he never had heart disease. I knew him well, almost from his birth. He was delicate, but he had no organic complaint of any sort. It is just possible that disease of the heart may be developed within a fortnight, but on that point I should like to ask the opinion of another doctor.” “Why so? Is not my word as good as another’s? Such instances are rare, but not impossible.” Pelham was silent. “Go on,” said Tarbot after a pause. “Say all that is in your mind. You have gone too far now to draw back. Your impression is that the child did not die of heart disease. You at least admit that he is dead?” “Heaven help me, yes.” “That being the case, what did he die of?” “I cannot tell you. I wish I could.” “Is it your impression that he came by his death unduly?” “I have harbored such a suspicion.” “Whom do you suspect?”