He left the Park, walked rapidly to the nearest telegraph office and sent a telegram to his wife:—
“Don’t sit up for me should I be late.—Pelham.”
This being despatched, he walked as fast as he could in the direction of Ashley Mansions. He ran up the steps of the well-known house and rang the bell.
The old butler smiled with pleasure when he saw his face.
“My mistress is dining at present, sir; but she’ll be sure to see you. This way, Sir Richard.”
The man ushered him into the big dining-room. It was a somber apartment, with a dark, old-fashioned flock paper on the walls and heavy moreen curtains to the windows. The house was lit throughout with electric light, but even that failed to make the room look cheerful. A portrait of little Piers done by a celebrated painter had the place of honor over the mantelpiece. The picture had been executed about six months before the child’s death. The boy in rich velvet, a Vandyke collar surrounding his soft little neck, his dark hair flung back from his brow, was standing with one arm over the neck of a favorite boarhound. He was looking straight out into the world with his eager—almost too eager—gaze. The eyes, like those in every good portrait, followed the inmates of the room.
As Pelham entered they fixed themselves immediately on him. The young man was startled. He had forgotten that this speaking portrait of Piers existed. His heart gave a bound, he looked up at the picture as though he meant to say something reassuring to it. The sparkling, vivid, lifelike glance continued to follow the young man. Mrs. Pelham, who was seated at a small table just under the picture and close to the fire, rose and went to meet him.
“Now, Dick, this is nice and friendly,” she cried. “Sit down. You’ll have dinner with me, won’t you?”
“I shall be very pleased,” answered Pelham.
“Lay a place at once for Sir Richard,” said Mrs. Pelham, turning to the butler.