as possible should follow the
hearse, and Mrs. Peckover's reason for conducting Mrs. Gully hither was
a justifiable fear lest, if she came alone, the latter would arrive in
too manifest a state of insobriety. A certain amount of stimulant had
been permitted on the way, just enough to assist a genteel loquacity,
for which Mrs. Gully had a reputation. She had given her word to
abstain from further imbibing until after the funeral.

The news which greeted her arrival was anything but welcome to Mrs.
Peckover. In the first place, there would be far more work than usual
to be performed in the house to-day, and Jane could be ill spared.
Worse than that, however, Clara Hewett, who was losing half a day's
work on Jane's account, made a very emphatic statement as to the origin
of the illness, and said that if anything happened to Jane, there would
be disagreeable facts forthcoming at a coroner's inquest. Having looked
at the sick child, Mrs. Peckover went downstairs and shut herself up
with Clem. There was a stormy interview.

'So you thought you'd have yer fling, did you, just because I wasn't
'ere? You must go makin' trouble, just to suit yer own fancies! I'll
pay you, my lady! Gr-r-r!'

Whereupon followed the smack of a large hand on a fleshy cheek, so
vigorous and unexpected a blow that even the sturdy Clem staggered back.

'You leave me alone, will you?' she roared out, her smitten cheek in a
flame. 'Do that again, an' I'll give you somethin' for yerself! See if
I don't! You just try it on!'

The room rang with uproarious abuse, with disgusting language, with the
terrific threats which are such common flowers of rhetoric in that
world, and generally mean nothing whatever. The end of it all was that
Clem went to fetch a doctor; one in whom Mrs. Peckover could repose
confidence. The man was, in fact, a druggist, with a shop in an obscure
street over towards St. Luke's; in his window was exhibited a card
which stated that a certain medical man could be consulted here daily.
The said medical man had, in fact, so much more business than he could
attend to--his name appearing in many shops--that the druggist was
deputed to act as his assistant, and was considerately supplied with
death-certificates, already signed, and only needing to be filled in
with details. Summoned by Mrs. Peckover, whose old acquaintance he was,
the druggist left the shop in care of his son, aged fifteen, and sped
to Clerkenwell Close. He made light of