‘Let us review the situation, Ned,’ said the doctor. ‘Some years ago you left this country suddenly. At that time we were all down on our luck. You had run through your money leading a fast life, so had I, so had Gurth Egerton. We were all gamblers and loose fish, and our principal haunt was Josh Heckett’s betting-office and gambling den in Soho. There was only one rich man among us, and we turned rooks to make him our pigeon. That was Ralph Egerton, Gurth’s cousin. He was a drunken, reckless fool, and we thought him an easy prey. He came night after night to the den, but he didn’t seem to care for play; he lost with a good grace, and we never could quite make out why he came. One night there was a furious quarrel there; blows were struck in the struggle, the table was knocked over, and the light extinguished. Suddenly Ralph Egerton shrieked out that he was stabbed, and when a light was struck we found him lying on the floor with a knife in his breast and the lifeblood pouring out. No one knew who had struck the blow. He could not say. There were half-a-dozen strangers present, and they got away directly, fearing to be mixed up in a gambling-house scandal. The knife was one which had been used to cut the corks of the champagne-bottles, and had been lying on the table.’ ‘Well, I know all about that,’ interrupted Marston. ‘Excuse me; let me review the situation my own way. We were all terrified, for we knew what would come out if an inquest was held. Old Heckett was like a madman, and beside himself with terror. Gurth Egerton was as white as a ghost, and stood trembling like a child. You and I were the only ones who kept our heads. I was just admitted to the profession, and I examined the wound, and found that it was a bad one. We held a council and agreed what to do. I bandaged the wound up tightly and swathed the body round so that no blood could escape; then you went and got a four-wheel cab, and we put him in. We carried him between us, talking to him as if he were a drunken man, to deceive the cabman. We drove here, to this very villa, which was his house, and carried him in. I am quite correct in my story so far, am I not?’ ‘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.