‘I know you stabbed your cousin, certainly, but it was only a scratch. I thought I told you I signed the certificate of his death.’
‘Yes. To hide the real cause.’
‘Nonsense! I signed a proper certificate. Ralph Egerton died from what I wrote on the certificate—from a complication of diseases brought on by drink. The wound had nothing to do with it. The bleeding did him good, if anything.’
Gurth Egerton sat like a man in a dream.
‘Do you mean that?’
‘I mean you’ve been accusing yourself all these years of a crime you never committed. I called a physician in to Ralph—he can be produced, if necessary. The cause of death was what I say.’
‘Why, in God’s name, did you never tell me this before, Birnie?’ exclaimed Egerton, still half dazed.
‘I never knew you accused yourself of the murder,’ said the doctor, quietly. ‘I showed you the certificate.’
‘Yes, but I thought——’
‘My dear fellow,’ exclaimed Birnie, interrupting, ‘you’ve been the victim of an hallucination. The sooner you get rid of the idea that you murdered your cousin, the better; and as to this confession, they’ll never decipher any more. The salt water has destroyed the paper, I take it. No chemistry can restore what does not exist.’