“’Twould be brickybac,” said Cassidy genially.

“That there hall’s choked with dust,” said the expressman with seeming irrelevance.

“I noticed it meself,” said Cassidy.

“Clogged me throat up fur fair,” continued the expressman huskily.

“Pay the men liberally and let them be on their way,” said Balthasar.  Bean pressed money upon both and they departed.

“You couldn’t get me to do it again for twice the money,” said Balthasar; “the nervous strain I’ve been under.  A custom-house detective was on our trail, but one of my men took care of him—­at a dark corner.”

Bean shuddered.

“They didn’t—­”

“Oh, nothing serious.  He’ll be as well as ever in a few days.  Got a hatchet.”  He gestured significantly toward the crate.

But this was too precipitate for Bean.  He could not disinter himself—­it seemed like that—­under the eyes of Balthasar.

“Not now!  Not now!  You’ve done your part—­here!” He passed Balthasar the check he had written earlier in the evening.

“I’ll leave you, then,” said the professor.  “But one thing, don’t handle it much.  It might disintegrate.  I bid you farewell, my young friend.”

Bean, at the door, listened to his descending steps.  The professor was whistling.  He recognized the air, “Call Me Up Some Rainy Afternoon.”  It was a lively air and the professor rendered it ably but quite softly.

The door locked, he was back staring at the crate that concealed his dead self.  He was helpless before it.  The fleshly tenement of a great king who had later flashed upon the world as Napoleon I, and was now Bunker Bean!  Could he bear to look?  He trembled and knew himself weak.  Yet it would be done, some time.

There was a vigorous knock at the door.  All was discovered!

The crime of assault at the dark corner had been traced to his door.  Balthasar had betrayed him.  The Egyptian authorities had discovered their loss.  The thing was there.  He was caught red-handed.

He reached the door and cautiously opened it an inch.  Cassidy stood there, armed with a hatchet.  They would use violence!

“Hatchet!” said Cassidy, genially extending the weapon.  He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.  The aroma of beer stole into the room.

“F’r brox brickybac!” insinuated Cassidy.

“Thanks!” said Bean, accepting the tool.

“We kem frum th’ sem county, Mayo, him an’ me,” volunteered Cassidy.  “G’night!”

Once more Bean faced the crate.  It must be done at once.  Discovery was too probable.  Gingerly he forced the blade under one of the boards and pried.  The nails screeched horribly as they were withdrawn.  The task was simple enough; the crate was a flimsy affair to have withstood so difficult a journey.  But after each board was removed he peered to the street from behind the closed blind, half expecting to find policemen drawn to the spot.