“Whatever time will suit you, Dr. Tarbot. Your time is mine. I am not specially engaged in any way. It is true that Barbara wants me to go with her to Exeter to choose presents for the villagers’ Christmas tree, but there is no special hurry, and we can postpone our visit. I shall be at your disposal. Will you come here at eleven o’clock?”
“Would it be possible for you to come to me?”
“Why?”
“I have reasons which you will appreciate.”
“Certainly, if you wish,” she replied.
“I can secure a sitting-room where we can be quite alone at the ‘Pelham Arms.’ May I expect you at eleven o’clock to-morrow?”
“Yes,” replied the widow.
At that moment Barbara and Pelham entered the room. Barbara sat down at the open piano and began to sing. She sang several times, and her voice was rich, full, and pleasing. Dick went and stood by her side. Between the songs he and she spoke together in low tones, just as if they were lovers. Presently Tarbot, making an effort, went up and joined the group. He could talk well, and he exerted himself now to be agreeable. Presently his efforts met their reward. Barbara ceased to distrust him. He spoke of people and matters which only Londoners would appreciate. Barbara asked questions, put in suggestions, and enjoyed the doctor’s clever epitome of society gossip.
Dick scarcely spoke. He was never much of a talker, and his dislike to Tarbot increased moment by moment. Once more the old suspicions returned to him. Had the child come by his death through natural causes? Pelham had to remind himself of what the two great consultants and the chemist had said before his usual equanimity reasserted itself.
Soon after ten o’clock Tarbot took his leave. He shook hands first with Barbara, then he went up to Mrs. Pelham.