“By god,” Dr. Vickery clapped Detective Sykes on the shoulder, “what a morning.  Now we’re getting somewhere, my boy.”

        “We’re doing all right,” agreed Sykes.  “We’ve got our proof—that Alice Walsh was never there; was indeed never a patient there.”

The men strolled along the High Street, and entered a little cafe.   They chose a secluded corner and ordered tea and ham sandwiches.

        “Doing all right?” Dr. Vickery said between mouthfuls of sandwich.  “Did you ever imagine you’d stumble across this sort of evidence—why, the scoundrel must have got his hands on a blank death certif …hey—what’s that?”

        “You’d better lower your voice,” Sykes glanced toward the counter where the serving woman stole looks toward them.

        “Oh, I beg your pardon,” muttered the doctor.  “I got carried away … what’s next, my boy?”

        “Next?”  Sykes finished his sandwich and gulped his tea.  “I don’t imagine you’re aware of it, but you have a mustard stain on your tie; that will never do.  Why don’t we find a gentleman’s outfitter, and you can purchase a new one.”

        “A new tie?”  gaped the doctor, looking down at his own.

        “Yes.  I’ve heard tell of a fine gentleman’s shop in this town—I believe the proprietor’s name is Cousins.”

        “Ah,” smiled the doctor.  “I take your meaning.”

        “Splendid.  Now, here is what I want you to do …”