“Yes, but there is nothing in it. Such reports are sure to be spread of any girl. Listen to me, dear. I will be faithful to you, but I must not worry mother just for a little. Be satisfied; let us understand each other, but do not let the engagement become public quite yet.” “I suppose it must be as you wish,” said Pelham, “only I hate to feel that other men have a right to talk to you, and make love to you; but I suppose I must submit. Oh! if only poor little Piers were not in existence, your mother would welcome me. If I could come to her as Sir Richard Pelham she would raise no objections, eh, Barbara?” “No,” answered Barbara slowly. “But as Piers is there, and as we love him very much, and as we earnestly hope he will live, there is no use thinking of that.” “Of course there is not, and I am mad to speak of it; but my brain is in a whirl to-night. Yes; Piers will live—he will be a strongman yet. He will come in for his sixty thousand pounds a year and the Pelham estates.” “It is strange to think that you are really the next heir,” said Barbara. “It is a fact all the same, Barbara. If Piers were not in the world, dear little chap, I should be the baronet, and the property would be mine. Well, don’t let us say anything more about it. I suppose I must consent to our not being engaged for the present, but you must make me a promise.” “What is that?” “Tell me, here and now, that you will never marry anybody else.” “I promise never to marry any man in this wide world but you, Richard Pelham,” said the girl slowly and solemnly. Tarbot peered through the glass of the conservatory. He could just see the faces of the lovers. Barbara’s was all aflame with emotion. Dick was holding both her hands in a fervent clasp. With bowed head the surgeon moved away. He had made up his mind. Hailing a hansom, he drove straight to the house of the patient whose dying bed he had promised to attend. It was now close on twelve o’clock—the man had breathed his last a quarter of an hour ago. Tarbot went into the house, made ample apologies to the widow, sympathized with her as she stood before him in her grief, and then took his leave. “No time like the present,” he said to himself. “My blood is up; I will not wait until the morning. What I have to do I will do quickly. “Drive to Tottenham Court Road, and put me down at the corner of Goodge Street,” said Tarbot to his driver. He stepped into the hansom, the man whipped up his horse, and a few moments later the doctor was walking quietly down Goodge Street. It happened to be Saturday night, and Goodge Street at that hour was the reverse of aristocratic. Torches were flaring on piled-up barrows holding every sort of fruit. Women were screaming and chaffering, men were lounging about and smoking, children got in the way, were knocked over, and cried out.