"There are almost no glycerides," remarked Peter, wishing to hold the
doctor till he should have had time to think.

"No," said the doctor. "It was skim milk."

"You will report it to the Health Board?" asked Peter.

"When I'm up there," said the doctor. "Not that it will do any good. But
the law requires it"

"Won't they investigate?"

"They'll investigate too much. The trouble with them is, they
investigate, but don't prosecute."

"Thank you," said Peter. He shook hands with the parents, and went
upstairs to the fourth floor. The crape on a door guided him to where
Bridget Milligan lay. Here preparations had gone farther. Not merely
were the candles burning, but four bottles, with the corks partly drawn,
were on the cold cooking stove, while a wooden pail filled with beer,
reposed in the embrace of a wash-tub, filled otherwise with ice. Peter
asked a few questions. There was only an elder brother and sister.
Patrick worked as a porter. Ellen rolled cigars. They had a little money
laid up. Enough to pay for the funeral. "Mr. Moriarty gave us the whisky
and beer at half price," the girl explained incidentally. "Thank you,
sir. We don't need anything." Peter rose to go. "Bridget was often
speaking of you to us. And I thank you for what you did for her."

Peter went down, and called next door, to see Dr. Plumb's patients.
These were in a fair way for recovery.