Mrs. Weathered was in deep black. Her manner showed that she was resigned to her husband’s fate by this time, but she was evidently in a state of extreme nervousness, as she well might be while the mystery was unsolved. Sarah, on the other hand, at the beginning of the interview, was as cold and self-possessed as though her part was over, and she had ceased to feel any personal interest in the sequel. “I have called on you,” Tarleton explained, “to let you know officially that I have examined into the cause of Dr. Weathered’s death, and am prepared to certify that it was due to heart failure.” I stared. In one sense, of course, almost every death may be said to be due to heart failure. The question generally is what has caused the heart to fail; and I knew perfectly well that the burial certificate would have to be more explicit. But Mrs. Weathered showed herself quite satisfied. “Then it was a natural death, after all?” she exclaimed in relief. “There is no reason why you shouldn’t regard it so,” was the answer. “I should advise you to accept that view, and refrain from discussing the matter with anyone. I wish to spare you the trouble and unpleasantness of an inquest, if possible. I propose to have the body brought round here some time to-night, or rather in the early morning; and you can then make your own arrangements for the funeral.” The widow clasped her hands in gratification. “That is good of you, Sir Frank. I don’t know how to thank you.” She looked up at her daughter, whose face was overcast. “My dear, we couldn’t have asked for anything better. I have been dreading the inquest more than I can say.” Sarah’s expression was troubled. She tried to return her mother’s pleading look with one of sympathy. Then she lifted her head, and let her eyes rest on the consultant with quiet scorn. “My mother has every reason to be grateful to you, Sir Frank,” she said ungraciously. “But you haven’t told us what caused the heart to fail.” Tarleton returned her gaze with quiet forbearance. It was in his power to crush her with an allusion to her presence at the Domino Club in the character of Salome, but he generously refrained from doing so in her mother’s hearing. Already the poor woman’s face was downcast again, and she glanced anxiously from her daughter to us. “That is a question which Mrs. Weathered is entitled to raise if she pleases,” the doctor said gravely. “You have just heard me advise her not to do so. At the same time if you would like to go into the question with me privately I am quite willing.” “Oh, no, no!” The protest broke from the widow’s lips. She caught hold of her daughter’s hand. “Don’t say anything more, dear. I’m sure Sir Frank Tarleton knows best. We must do what he tells us.” The girl compressed her lips with a strong effort. Her eye sought Tarleton’s and I thought a signal was exchanged between them. Then he rose to his feet.