“I knew there was no chance,” he said, when told of the death. “And you remember I said so,” he added, appealing to the parents. “Yes, that’s what he said,” responded the father. “Well,” said the doctor, speaking in a brisk, lively way peculiar to him, “I’ve found what the matter was.” “No?” said the mother, becoming interested at once. “It was the milk,” the doctor continued. “I thought there was something wrong with it, the moment I smelt it, but I took some home to make sure.” He pulled a paper out of his pocket. “That’s the test, and Dr. Plumb, who has two cases next door, found it was just the same there.” The Blacketts gazed at the written analysis, with wonder, not understanding a word of it. Peter looked too, when they had satisfied their curiosity. As he read it, a curious expression came into his face. A look not unlike that which his face had worn on the deck of the “Sunrise.” It could hardly be called a change of expression, but rather a strengthening and deepening of his ordinary look. “That was in the milk drunk by the children?” he asked, placing his finger on a particular line. “Yes,” replied the doctor. “The milk was bad to start with, and was drugged to conceal the fact. These carbonates sometimes work very unevenly, and I presume this particular can of milk got more than its share of the doctoring. “There are almost no glycerides,” remarked Peter, wishing to hold the doctor till he should have had time to think. “No,” said the doctor. “It was skim milk.” “You will report it to the Health Board?” asked Peter. “When I’m up there,” said the doctor. “Not that it will do any good. But the law requires it” “Won’t they investigate?” “They’ll investigate too much. The trouble with them is, they investigate, but don’t prosecute.” “Thank you,” said Peter. He shook hands with the parents, and went upstairs to the fourth floor. The crape on a door guided him to where Bridget Milligan lay. Here preparations had gone farther. Not merely were the candles burning, but four bottles, with the corks partly drawn, were on the cold cooking stove, while a wooden pail filled with beer, reposed in the embrace of a wash-tub, filled otherwise with ice. Peter asked a few questions. There was only an elder brother and sister. Patrick worked as a porter. Ellen rolled cigars. They had a little money laid up. Enough to pay for the funeral. “Mr. Moriarty gave us the whisky and beer at half price,” the girl explained incidentally. “Thank you, sir. We don’t need anything.” Peter rose to go. “Bridget was often speaking of you to us. And I thank you for what you did for her.” Peter went down, and called next door, to see Dr. Plumb’s patients. These were in a fair way for recovery.