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