‘Quite,’ answered Marston, lazily puffing his pipe. ‘Up to this point you’ve told me nothing I couldn’t have told you. Go on.’
‘Here your part of the transaction ended,’ continued the doctor, ‘and the rest was left to me. Ralph Egerton died. I was with him to the last. I performed the last offices myself, and when the undertaker came he found only a neatly shrouded body. Everything was done in my presence, and no one ever had the slightest suspicion of foul play. The death was duly registered, and my certificate accepted as that of the medical man who had attended the deceased during his last illness.’
Dr. Birnie went to his writing-table, undid a drawer, and handed a piece of paper to Marston.
‘Here is a copy of the certificate,’ he said.
Marston read it. It was to the effect that Ralph Egerton had been attended for so many days by Oliver Birnie, his regular medical attendant, and had died from a complication of diseases—the diseases which a life of drinking and dissipation would probably culminate in.
‘All this had occurred before I left England,’ he said, as he handed it back to the doctor. ‘I don’t see what it has to do with my £500.’
The doctor threw his tobacco-pouch across to him.
‘Have another pipe, and be patient. You’ll see directly. Well, after Ralph Egerton had been buried, it was found that Gurth was his next heir, and came into all the property; and a nice little haul it was. There was a lot of ready money, and some comfortable house property, and no end of stocks and shares.’
‘I didn’t know that Gurth was the heir when I left,’ said Marston.
‘Of course you didn’t. You might not have gone if you had known, eh?’