“But remember the condition. His suspicions about me must die out, or at least they must not be acted upon.” “I think I shall succeed,” said Clara. “Well, it is a bargain then. I am going to analyze the medicine now. Good night.” Tarbot rose, and a moment later left the room. Clara stood where he had left her. One of her thin hands drummed on the little table near which she was standing. Her thoughts were very busy. After a time she rose and went to her secretary. She took out a sheet of headed notepaper and envelope, and sitting down wrote a note. This note was to Barbara Pelham. “DEAR LADY PELHAM,—The advice I gave you to-day I want to enforce by a letter. I have thought much of you since your visit. Your husband is in a highly nervous condition, but he has no cause whatever for his fears. Why should he not set them completely at rest by doing as I suggest, and asking the opinions of Dr. Williamson and Sir Richard Spears? He might also go to the chemist and get a copy of the prescription of the last medicine given to the child. Would you suggest this to him without bringing my name into the matter? After receiving the information which he will doubtless get from the two great specialists and from the chemist, if his fears still remain, please communicate with me, for I can give him a treatment which will assuredly put him into a healthier frame of mind. I would rather not use this last remedy unless essential. “Yours, with much sympathy, “CLARA TARBOT.” Having written the letter, Clara herself went out to post it. The servants had gone to bed. She wrapped a shawl round her head and walked quickly down Harley Street. She slipped the letter into the pillar box and returned home. Her mind was comparatively at rest. She had just reached her hall door when a hand was laid on her arm. She turned round quickly. “Well, Clara, well! And so you were about to cut your own mother.” “Mother,” cried Clara with a start, “What have you come to town for? What is the matter? Anything wrong?” “Nothing, Clara, nothing. I’ve only come to talk to you. I am coming into your house, into your grand house. I don’t care about your grandeur, but I’m coming in to see you, for I’ve got something to say.” “Come in, of course, mother. I shall be delighted to welcome you. Come up-stairs to the drawing-room.” Clara closed the hall door, and walked up the grand staircase accompanied by her mother. They entered the drawing-room, the little woman immediately dropping a curtsey. “A mercy me!” she cried. “A deal of rugs and curtains and fine furniture all over the place, but the air smothering to the breathing all the same. Clara, I came to say that the child——” “If you want to talk on private matters, mother, we had better go to my bedroom. You will sleep here, of course.”