In this he was right. The doctor's story was a plain one. The young man was very ill indeed when brought to him, and though he did not anticipate so early or sudden an end, he was not surprised when death came, and had of course, no difficulty about giving the necessary certificate. Just as plain was the undertaker's account of his connection with the affair--a very ordinary transaction in his eyes. And having heard both stories, there was nothing to do but to visit one of the adjacent cemeteries and find a certain grave the number of which they had ascertained from the undertaker's books. It was easily found--and Copplestone and Gilling found themselves standing at a new tombstone, whereon the monumental mason had carved four lines:-- MARK GREY BORN APRIL 12TH, 1884 DIED OCTOBER 6TH, 1912 AGED 28 YEARS. "Short, simple, eminently suited to the purpose," murmured Gilling as the two turned away. "Somebody thought things out quickly and well, Copplestone, when this poor fellow died. Do you know I've been thinking as we walked up here that if Bassett Oliver had never taken it into his head to visit Scarhaven that Sunday this fraud would never have been found out! The chances were all against its ever being found out. Consider them! A young man who is an absolute stranger in England comes to take up an inheritance, having on him no doubt, the necessary proofs of identification. He's met by one person only--his agent. He dies next day. The agent buries him, under a false name, takes his effects and papers, gets some accomplice to personate him, introduces that accomplice to everybody as the real man--and there you are! Oh, Chatfield knew what he was doing! Who on earth, wandering in this cemetery, would ever connect Mark Grey with Marston Greyle?" "Just so--but there was one danger-spot which must have given Chatfield and his accomplices a good many uneasy hours," answered Copplestone. "You know that Marston Greyle actually registered in his own name at Falmouth and was known to the land lord and the doctor there." "Yes--and Falmouth is three hundred miles from London and five hundred from Scarhaven," replied Gilling dryly. "And do you suppose that whoever saw Marston Greyle at Falmouth cared two pins--comparatively--what became of him after he left there? No--Chatfield was almost safe from detection as soon as he'd got that unfortunate young fellow laid away in that grave. However we know now--what we do know. And the next thing, now that we know Marston Greyle lies behind us there, is to get back to town and catch the chap who took his place. We'll wire to Swallow and to Petherton and get the next express."