He only knew that a voice had cried out against him from the far-off seas, and that at the present moment his confession of the murder of his cousin was in the hands of the police. CHAPTER LXIII. EDWARD MARSTON GOES HOME. When Gurth Egerton got home he found Birnie still sitting up and smoking. The doctor had gone home, after the theatre, with some friends to a supper party, and had only just returned, although it was nearly four o’clock. As Gurth let himself in the doctor called out to him. ‘I’m glad you’re up, Birnie,’ said Gurth, ‘for I want to speak to you.’ ‘Why, how pale you are, old fellow! You look as if you’d seen a ghost.’ ‘So I have,’ answered Gurth, sinking into a chair; ‘or something quite as bad. That cursed business about Ralph has turned up again!’ Birnie sat for a moment looking at his companion, and said nothing. For a long time past he had been wishing to speak to Gurth on this very subject, and yet he felt it was an awkward one to approach. He was firmly established in his profession, he had made a fortune, he had not the slightest need now of pecuniary assistance, and he felt that some day Gurth might be tempted to do some stupid thing, and then the blame would rest on him. Birnie had all his life long let nothing trouble him, and had always taken a passive rather that an active part in the search after fortune. He objected now to these periodical alarms of Mr. Egerton’s. He didn’t want to be bothered with his friend’s business any more. He felt that the time had come when it would be perhaps as well if he and Gurth Egerton really did have a little conversation about the late Mr. Ralph Egerton. ‘Well, what about poor Ralph now?’ asked the doctor, after he had determined on his course of action and let a big ring of smoke float gracefully from his lips. ‘Birnie, I must make a clean breast of it,’ said Gurth. ‘It’s no good beating about the bush. You know that unfortunate night when in the heat of a quarrel I stabbed Ralph, and he died. It wasn’t murder, but the world might call it hard names. I ran away, like the coward that I am, and you sent me word that he was dead, that you had signed the certificate, and that I could come back. I have always been grateful to you, Birnie, and I think I’ve shown it, for you helped me out of a horrible mess. I tremble to think what might have happened but for you.’ ‘It might have been a little awkward, certainly,’ said Birnie. ‘Indeed it might. Well, when the _Bon Espoir_ went down, and I thought it was all up with me, like a cursed fool that I was, I wrote out a confession and gave it to a clergyman. I confessed that I had stabbed my cousin.’ ‘Good Heavens! you didn’t do that?’ exclaimed Birnie, his calm face agitated for once.