“Don’t talk of it, don’t think of it,” said Pelham. “This death has been a frightful blow to me. I must tell you what I feel about it. There are moments when I am almost inclined to shirk the whole thing—to go away. I hate the property which has come to me through the child’s death.”
“It is very good of you to feel like that, but you must get over it, Dick—you must really. Even though he was my son I cannot let his death ruin your life. But now, what do you want to go to his room for?”
“Must I tell you?”
“Not if you would rather not. Perhaps you wish me to give you something to remember him by, and I will with pleasure. Shall I come with you?”
“I would rather go alone, and I will tell you quite frankly the reason: I wish to examine the boy’s medicine bottles.”
Mrs. Pelham started back.
“What in the world do you mean?” she exclaimed.
“I am dreadfully sorry to distress you,” said Pelham, “but I am particularly anxious to see the bottle out of which Piers had his last dose of medicine. Is it still up-stairs?”
“It is not. Of course, my dear Dick, I would gratify you if I could.”
“I have been anxious for some time to see that last bottle of medicine.”