“I’m in a hole—a desperate hole,” he said very anxiously. “Poor Gabrielle has died, but if it gets out that her death is sudden, then there must be a coroner’s inquiry with all its publicity—photographs in the picture-papers, and, perhaps, all sorts of mud cast at me. I want to avoid all this—and you alone can help me!”
“How?” I inquired, much perturbed by the tragic occurrence.
“By giving a death certificate.”
“But I’m not a doctor!”
“You can pass as one,” he said, looking very straight at me. “Besides, it is so easy for you to write out a certificate and sign it, with a change of your Christian name. There is a Gordon Garfield in the ’Medical List.’ Won’t you do it for me, and help me out of a very great difficulty? Do! I implore you,” he urged.
“But—I—I——”
“Please do not hesitate. You have only to give the certificate. Here is pen and paper. And here is a blank form. My niece died of heart disease, for which you have attended her several times during the past six months.”
“I certainly have not!”
“No,” he replied, grinning. “I am aware of that. But surely five thousand pounds is easily earned by writing out a certificate. I’ll write it—you only just copy it,” and he bent and scribbled some words upon a slip of paper.
Five thousand pounds! It was a tempting offer in face of the fact that I had just lost practically a similar sum.