Rogues and Vagabonds. George R. Sims

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      ‘I think you’ll pay it, in spite of the statute.’

      ‘Well,’ answered the doctor, taking a pipe from the mantelshelf and filling it, ‘I may, or I may not. That depends on you. I suppose you’ve something better to offer me than this worthless piece of paper for £500?’

      ‘Perhaps I have.’

      ‘Take a pipe from the rack,’ said the doctor. ‘Here’s some tobacco. Tobacco is a wonderful sedative, and we want to talk this matter over calmly.’

      Marston lit his pipe and settled himself down in an arm-chair. He was quite ready for a combat, if combat it was to be.

      ‘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.

      Marston read it. It was to the effect that Ralph Egerton had been attended for so many days by Oliver Birnie, his regular medical attendant, and had died from a complication of diseases—the diseases which a life of drinking and dissipation would probably culminate in.

      ‘All this had occurred before I left England,’ he said, as he handed it back to the doctor. ‘I don’t see what it has to do with my £500.’

      The doctor threw his tobacco-pouch across to him.

      ‘Have another pipe, and be patient. You’ll see directly. Well, after Ralph Egerton had been buried, it was found that Gurth was his next heir, and came into all the property; and a nice little haul it was. There was a lot of ready money, and some comfortable house property, and no end of stocks and shares.’

      ‘I didn’t know that Gurth was the heir when I left,’ said Marston.

      ‘Of course you didn’t. You might not have gone if you had known, eh?’

      ‘That’s a matter I won’t discuss now,’ answered Marston. ‘All I know is that I’m back again, that I haven’t got a mag in the world, and that, as you and Egerton seem to have done so well, perhaps you’ll come down handsomely for an old friend.’

      ‘My dear fellow, that’s just where you make the mistake. I am not a rich man. I’ve got a little practice, and I have a carriage and pair for appearance sake, in the hope of working up a better. It isn’t mine. I hire it when I want it, and use it as an advertisement. This house I have lived in since Ralph died here. Gurth let it to me cheap on a long lease. Gurth has behaved very handsomely to me, and, as a matter of fact, that is the reason I have been able to appear well-to-do on a practice which really is not lucrative.’

      ‘I don’t suppose generosity had much to do with it,’ growled Marston.

      ‘As you will, my boy. It isn’t worth while discussing the motive—the fact remains. Gurth has done well since you left. I have only done well through Gurth.’

      ‘I see what you are driving at,’ said Marston. ‘You mean that if I want help Gurth is the man I ought to go to. Well, where is he?’

      ‘At the bottom of the sea,’ answered the doctor, knocking the ashes out of his pipe.

      Ned Marston jumped up in a rage and strode across the room to where Birnie sat.

      ‘Look here, Oliver Birnie,’ he cried, clutching his arm, ‘this game doesn’t suit me. I’m not to be humbugged by your cool as a cucumber business. I’m back in London, and I’ve got to live. I look for my old friends, and I can find only one of them—you. You owe me £500, statute or no statute—are you going to pay it?’

      ‘My dear fellow, it was only a gambling debt in the first place, and in the second it’s not recoverable on account of its age.’

      ‘I only ask you for £500 for this bit of paper. Give me that, and I’ll make a fair start, and go ahead right enough. I’ve got my wits about me, and pluck enough for a dozen man. Give me the money, and you won’t be troubled with me any more.’

      ‘Sit down and talk sensibly,’ said the doctor quietly, ‘and I’ll see what I can do for an old comrade in distress.’

      The doctor and his visitor were closeted together in earnest conversation for over an hour. When Marston went out through the garden gate, Rebecca looked after him with as much scorn as her features could assume.

      ‘He ain’t been here for no good, I’ll wager,’ she said to herself. ‘If he ain’t got something in his pocket as he didn’t bring in with him my name ain’t Rebeccer.’

      Rebecca was quite right. Mr. Marston had something in his pocket that he didn’t bring in with him. It was a cheque for £500.

      In spite of his non-lucrative practice, Dr. Birnie evidently had a balance at his banker’s.

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