Mrs. Pelham reached the “Pelham Arms” at three minutes to eleven. Tarbot was waiting for her, he was standing on the steps, a cigar in his mouth. When he saw her he threw away the cigar and came forward to meet her. His face was white, his lips looked thinner than ever, and his eyes had a strained expression.
“I have secured a private sitting-room,” he said; “we shall be quite undisturbed. Come this way.”
Mrs. Pelham wondered what Tarbot wanted with her, and what news could affect her seriously now that the child was dead; she felt distressed and nervous.
Trembling a little, she followed the doctor into a small room, at the back of the bar. It smelt of cheese and stale beer. Tarbot went to the window and threw it open. There was a fire in the grate.
“That makes the atmosphere more tolerable,” he said. “I am sorry I could not invite you to a nicer room.”
“The room matters nothing,” said Mrs. Pelham. She untied her cloak as she spoke and threw back the crêpe strings of her bonnet. Her crêpe veil was up, her face looked pallid and her dark eyes full of apprehension.
“What is it, Luke? This mystery unnerves me.”
“I have some painful news to give you,” he said; “the best way is to tell you quite simply what I have discovered.”
“What is that?”
“You remember that I asked you to let me have the bottle which contained the medicine little Piers took just before he died?”