Tarbot in his light overcoat was a strange figure in the midst of the others. One or two people remarked him, a woman laughed, and a girl came behind him and pushed his hat over his eyes. A peal of laughter followed this witticism. Tarbot did not take the least notice, but walked on quickly. At last he stopped at a corner house which was different from its neighbors. It was newly built, and looked clean and respectable. It was, in short, a great block of people’s buildings. He went up the winding stairs, and presently sounded a bell on a door which was painted dark green, and on which the number 47 shone out in vivid white. There was a brass plate below the number on which were inscribed the words— MISS CLARA IVES, _Trained Nurse, Medical, Surgical._ Tarbot waited for a moment. Would the nurse be in? or, if in, would she have retired to rest? “Scarcely that,” he muttered to himself; “Clara does not sleep well. Clara has been subject to insomnia; she will scarcely retire before midnight on such a hot night as the present one.” These thoughts had scarcely darted through his brain before the door was opened, and a woman, tall and slender, with reddish hair and a freckled face, stood before him. She was a painfully thin woman, her eyes light blue and her upper lip long. When she saw Tarbot there came a gleam into her eyes—a peculiar look which for a moment transformed them. Then she stretched out her long right hand, took hold of the doctor’s, and led him into the room. “Who would have thought of seeing you here, and now?” she said breathlessly. “What do you want with me? Another case, eh? or anything else?” “I want a good deal with you, Clara, as it happens,” said Tarbot. He spoke in a familiar tone, without a trace of respect in it. “Shut the door, turn on the gas, and let us talk. As I said, I have much to say.” “But I am going out to a case in half an hour,” said Nurse Ives. “I am packing my things now—it is a bad case. A child has been burnt, and they have sent for me.” “Somebody else must attend to it. I want you,” said Tarbot. “What for?” “Another case—one of life or death.” “What do you mean?” “Have I ever spoken to you of little Piers Pelham, the present owner of the Pelham estates?” “What, the child who comes between Richard Pelham and the baronetcy?” said the nurse eagerly. “The same.” “Yes, I have heard of him; he is a delicate child. What of him?” “If you undertake his case he runs a chance of being a dead child soon.” “Now what does this mean?” “It means that I want to revenge a wrong, and the tool is young Piers Pelham. Do you follow me?” “Not at present, but I shall soon,” answered the woman. Then she continued: “What is the matter with the boy?” “At present,” said Tarbot, speaking very slowly, “he is quite well, but within a few days he will be ill. I shall send for you; you will nurse him.” “And——?” said the woman.