“A highly disordered nervous condition,” was his comment with regard to Pelham. “Sit down. What can I do for you?” he asked. “You can answer a question,” said Pelham. “About yourself? You come to me as a patient?” “In one sense, yes, in another, no. I am very much troubled, and I think it just possible that you may be able to relieve me.” “Then yours is a mental case, but——” “I have come to ask you a question,” interrupted Pelham, “and I am willing to pay the ordinary fee. Will you answer it?” “Ask it and then I will tell you,” said the doctor. “My question is this: You saw little Sir Piers Pelham during his last illness. You saw him, I am given to understand, in consultation with Dr. Tarbot of Harley Street?” “That is so; but this, Sir Richard Pelham”—the doctor glanced at the young man’s card as he spoke—“this is unusual.” “It is unusual, and so is my attitude,” replied Pelham. “What I have come to ask is this: Do you believe that the child’s death was owing to aortic disease?” “Undoubtedly.” Pelham’s brow cleared. He gave a short, quick sigh of relief. “Why do you ask me?” “Because I have had my doubts. I have known Piers from a child: he never showed the slightest symptom of heart disease.” “That fact has nothing to do with it. Aortic disease may come on suddenly and—end abruptly. In the case of your young friend it did so. I am glad to be able to relieve your mind. Yours is a somewhat strange inquiry, but I have thought it best to answer it.” “What is your fee?” asked Pelham. “Nothing, because I have done nothing for you. Good-by. By the way, you don’t look too well yourself. You ought to have change and rest.” “I shall be better now,” replied Pelham. He left the house. From Sir Richard Spears he went to Dr. Williamson. He was also fortunate enough to see him, and to put to him the same question. The same reply was vouchsafed. The boy had died from aortic disease. Aortic disease as a rule ended suddenly. Dick’s relief was now so manifest in his face that he could almost laugh aloud. From Dr. Williamson he went straight to the chemist from whom he had obtained the medicine which had been given to little Sir Piers on the night of his death. The chemist was willing to give him a copy of the prescription. Dick knew nothing whatever about medicine, but having got the copy, he asked the man what each ingredient meant. In some surprise the chemist answered him. “This is a very harmless prescription,” he said. “It would have little effect one way or the other.” “But the child for whom it was meant,” said Dick, his suspicions returning in a flash, “required a strong stimulant immediately.” The chemist shrugged his shoulders. “I am not prepared to enter into that question,” he answered. “This prescription is harmless—a little sal volatile, a small dose of digitalis, etc., etc.” “Thank you,” replied Dick.