‘Doctor,’ gasped the shiny one, running after him, and grabbing him by the coat-tails, for Birnie had walked on rapidly, ‘Doctor, one moment. I wish you’d come in and see Mrs. Turvey. She’s quite queer in her head. I can’t make her out.’
‘What, Mr. Egerton’s housekeeper?’
‘Yes, doctor. She’s quite light-headed. Swears she’s seen his ghost. Just come in and see her, sir, if you will. It’s the rummest case I ever heard of.’
The doctor walked back with Mr. Jabez.
‘It’s shock to the system,’ he said; ‘that’s all. When did she hear the news of his death?’
‘Last night, sir,’ answered Mr. Duck. ‘I told her, sir. Thought it was best. Old and faithful servant, sir—very much attached. He’s left her five hundred pounds in his will—as of course you know, sir, being executor.’
‘Of course,’ muttered the doctor, and then he silently followed his guide into Gurth Egerton’s house.
As he passed through the hall, and saw the late owner’s picture hanging there, his memory went back to a time when he, Oliver Birnie, and this very Gurth Egerton were companions in adversity, and were not quite sure where their next pound was coming from.
Now he was a rising practitioner, with a balance at his banker’s, and Gurth—well, Gurth had been drowned in the Bon Espoir, and had left his housekeeper five hundred pounds.