late Mrs. Penmore's children were next of kin to
the children of Mrs. Penmore's first cousin.
There were some remoter cousins yet, with whom
Miss Carrington had resided before she came to
live in London, and to these Gilbert wrote at
once, announcing what had happened, and
inviting any member of the family who might be
disposed to do so, to come up and look into the
deceased lady's affairs. He wrote also to her
solicitor to the same effect. After this, it was
necessary for him to go out in order to find some
one who could relieve him for a day or two of
certain pressing duties which for the time it
would be impossible for him to attend to.

When Dr. Giles and Gilbert Penmore left the
room up-stairs, after the doctor's useless visit
had been paid, the servant, Jane Cantanker,
remained behind. She sat herself down by the
bedside, and began thinking, and, to judge by
appearances, her thoughts were of a dark and
dangerous complexion. Those words which the
doctor had let drop at last, seemed to have made
a powerful impression upon her, for, after thinking
awhile, she also knelt down by the bedside,
and made an attempt to detect that smell of
opium of which the medical authority had spoken
with so much confidence. " I don't know what
the smell of opium is," she said to herself; " but
that there is the smell of some medical stuff or
other there, is beyond the shadow of a doubt."

Then she got up and began to pace the room
up and down, and then, as if suddenly remembering
something, she stopped short, and going to
the chimney-piece, took up the card which it
will be remembered the doctor placed there, and
perused it carefully. After that, she resumed
her pacing of the room once more, and then she
opened the door softly and left the room. She
came back in a minute or two, having put on her
bonnet and shawl in the mean time, and went up
to the chimney-piece, and once more read the
address upon the card, and that done, and having
looked round again at the bed and what lay upon
it, she finally left the apartment.

She went down stairs, and out of the house,
and proceeded along the street, looking up at all
the corners, as if in search of some particular
turning. At last she came to one which was
inscribed Henry-street. Here she paused, and,
after looking about her once more, went up to a
house which had a coloured lamp over the door,
and two bells, one over the other, marked
respectively " Night" and " Surgery." She gave a
smart pull at this last, and the door was
presently opened by a tall, pale young man, with a
blotchy countenance and a depressed appearance,
who responded to her inquiry, "Whether
Dr. Giles was at home," by simply holding the
door back, and making a sign to her to enter,
but without speaking a word.

Miss Cantanker, availing herself of this silent
invitation, went into the house, and passed
through a small door at once into the surgery.
There was an inner glass door in this apartment,
which was labelled "Consulting Room." But
though the door was glazed, as to its upper half,
there was a muslin curtain on the other side of
it, so that no one could see through to the room
within. There was a dim sound of voices
coming from this apartment.

"Dr. Giles is engaged for the moment," said
the sorrowful-looking gentleman; " but if you'll
sit down for a minute or two, he won't be long,"
and with that the young assistant returned to
the preparation of a mixture, of which " two
tablespoonfuls were to be taken every four hours,"
with great zest and assiduity.

Miss Cantanker watched him as he went on
with the preparation, hardly knowing that she
did so. Yet if she had been examined afterwards,
she could have told to how many of the
bottles on the different shelves he had had
recourse, how large a dose he had got out of each,
and what were the colours of the different liquids
which were used. She had registered these
things in her mind without there being the least
necessity for doing so, and almost unconsciously;
for there was present to her mind all the time a
certain upper-room, not far off, with a bed in it,
and something lying on the bed. The surgery,
with its bottles, and its pestle and mortar, its
glass door, and its umbrella-stand, she saw too;
but her sense of sight took in these much as our
sense of hearing takes in the accompaniment to
a sad song whose words are all the time riveting
our attention whether we will or not.

By-and-by the glass door was opened, and a
policeman, hard as a nail and stiff as a poker,
came from within, accompanied by the doctor.
Curiously they had just been engaged in talking
about an inquest, of all things in the world.

"It will take place at four o'clock, sir," said
the policeman, "if that will be convenient to
you."

"Oh yes," said the doctor, "that'll do. By-
the-by," he added, as his eye fell upon the figure of
Cantanker, "I think most likely that the coroner
will have to open another before long in Beaumont-
street."

The policeman had nothing to do with unoffcial
communications of this sort, so he stiffly took
his departure without another word, and the
doctor, bustling back, intimated to Miss
Cantanker that he was at liberty now to hear
anything that she might have to communicate to
him, and he led the way into the consulting-room.

"It is the servant who lives at the house
inhabited by that angelic woman Mrs. Penmore,"
said the assistant, pausing as the door closed in
the act of making up a black draught.

The young man was susceptible and
sentimental, and he had seen Gabrielle in his
professional excursions about the neighbourhood, and
respectfully adored her.

Meanwhile, on the other side of the glass door,
a conversation, which was likely to be fraught
with serious consequences, was being carried on
between Jane Cantanker and the police doctor.

"I have called," said the former, "in consequence