“You are, doctor. I had not intended to mention my suspicion, but since you have asked me, I’ll answer your question. I will ask you to keep what I am about to say very strictly to yourself, and on that understanding I must tell you that I’m not connected with an insurance company: I’m an inspector from Scotland Yard. Certain facts which I do not wish to go into at present have led me to suspect that Mr. Giles may have been murdered. I want to make sure.”
Dr. Emerson stared as if he couldn’t have believed his ears, and his jaw dropped.
“God bless my soul!” he cried. “Murdered? Did I hear you say murdered?”
“Yes,” said French, “but I am not sure about it. It is only a suspicion.”
“A pretty nasty suspicion for me, after my certificate! But you couldn’t be right. The very idea is absurd! Who could have murdered such a harmless man, and badly off at that!”
“Well, I think it might be possible to find a motive. But if you don’t mind, I’d really rather not discuss what may prove to be a mare’s nest. However, you see now the object of my questions. I want to know the possibilities from the medical point of view. Perhaps you will tell me about that autopsy?”
Dr. Emerson was manifestly disturbed by French’s suggestion. He moved uneasily in his chair and gave vent to exclamations of scepticism and concern. “Of course,” he went on, “I’ll tell you everything I can, and I needn’t say I most sincerely hope your suspicion is unfounded. You are perfectly correct on the other point. Only an autopsy can establish beyond question the fact of a death from myocarditis. If I had had the slightest doubt in Mr. Giles’ case I should have required one before giving a certificate. But I had no doubt, and with all due respect to you I have none now.”
“You may be right, doctor. I’ll tell you as soon as I know myself. In the meantime thank you for your information and not a word to a soul.”
French left the house with a deep satisfaction filling his mind. Dr. Emerson’s admission was what he had hoped for and it very nearly banished his last remaining doubt. But he felt that he ought to get Dr. Philpot’s views also. Philpot had seen the man before death and his evidence would certainly be required if the matter went further.
Accordingly, he turned in the direction of the younger man’s house, and a few minutes later was entering a consulting-room for the second time that day.
“Good afternoon, doctor,” he said, with his usual cheery smile. “I’ve come on my old tack of looking for information. But it’s a very simple matter this time: just one question on quite a different subject.”
Dr. Philpot was looking changed: old and worn and despondent. French was rather shocked at his appearance. He was sitting forward in his chair, hunched over the fire, with his head resting in his hands and a look of brooding misery on his features. He looked like a man upon whom a long expected blow had at last fallen; a man at the end of his tether, who does not know which way to turn for relief. And then, somewhat to French’s surprise, the cause came out.
“Of course, of course,” the other murmured, rousing himself as if from an evil dream. “If you want to know anything from me ask it now, for I’m leaving the town almost at once.”
French was genuinely surprised.
“Leaving the town?” he repeated. “You don’t mean—? Do you mean for good?”
“For good, yes. And I don’t want ever to see the cursed place again. But it’s my own fault. I may as well tell you, for you’ll hear it soon enough. I have failed.”
“Financially, you mean?”
Philpot glanced at his visitor with sombre resentment.
“Financially, of course. How else?” he growled. “It was never a land flowing with milk and honey, this place, but for the last few months my position has been getting more and more impossible. The only things I get plenty of are bills—bills everywhere, and no money to meet them. I’ve struggled and fought to keep my end up, but it has been no good. When I came, I couldn’t afford to buy a practice, and though I’ve not done so badly owing to Dr. Emerson’s giving up his more distant patients, I haven’t built up quickly enough and my little capital couldn’t stand the strain. Another three or four years and I might have got my head above water.” He made a gesture of despair. “But there it is and complaining won’t help it.”
French’s natural reaction was to show sympathy with anyone in trouble, and he could not help feeling sorry for this doctor who had made a mess of his life and who now, nearing middle age, was going to have to begin all over again. But when he remembered what the landlord of the Thirsdale Arms had told him of the man’s gambling proclivities, his sympathy was somewhat checked. To continue gambling when you know that your indulgence is going to prevent your paying your just debts is but a short way removed from theft. Of course, French did not know how far the landlord’s story was true, so it was with relief that he reminded himself that he was not Philpot’s judge, and that his business was simply to get the information he required as easily and pleasantly as he could.
“I am exceedingly sorry to hear what you say,” he declared gravely, and he was not altogether a hypocrite in making his manner and tone express genuine regret. “It is a terrible position for anyone to find himself in and I can well understand how you feel. But, though bad, you must not consider it hopeless. Many a man has passed through a similar trouble and has come out on top in the end.”
Philpot smiled faintly.
“I appreciate your kindness,” he answered. “But don’t let us
