‘Here he is, three months later. Stephen Malcolm, Esq., polished oak, brass handles,—a very superior article, I remember.’
‘There can be no mistake, I suppose, in an entry of that kind,’ asked Sampson.
‘Mistake!’ cried the undertaker, with an offended air. ‘If you can find a false entry in my books, I’ll forfeit five per cent. upon ten years’ profits.’
‘There can be no doubt, then, that Mr. Stephen Malcolm died at Ivy Cottage, and that you conducted his funeral?’
‘Not the least doubt.’
‘Very well. If you will get me a certified copy of the entry of his death in the parish register, I shall be happy to recompense you for your trouble. The document is required for a little bit of law business. Is the doctor who attended Mr. Malcolm still living?’
‘No. It was old Dr. Dewsnipp. He’s dead. But young Dewsnipp is alive, and in practice here. He can give you any information you want, I dare say.’
‘Thanks. I think if you get me the copy of the register, that will be sufficient. Oh, by the way, you may as well find the old lady’s address.’
‘Ah, to be sure. As you are interested in the family, you may like to have it; though I dare say the old lady has gone to her long home before now. Some London firm had the job, no doubt. London firms are so pushing, and they contrive to stand so well with the medical profession.’
The address was found—Mrs. Malcolm, 97, Russell Square—and copied by Mr. Sampson, who thanked the old man for his courtesy, and gave him his card, with the Midland Hotel address added in pencil. The short winter day was now closing in, and Sampson felt anxious to get Mrs. Treverton home.