“Rubbish! rubbish!” interrupted Braddock, peering into the depths of the packing case.  “I can see no wound.”

Mrs. Bolton leaped to her feet with an agility surprising in so aged a woman.  “Let me find the wound,” she screamed, throwing herself forward.

Hope caught her back and forced her towards the door.  “No!  The body must not be disturbed until the police see it,” he said firmly.

“The police—­ah, yes, the police,” remarked Braddock quickly, “we must send for the police to Pierside and tell them my mummy has been stolen.”

“That my boy has been murdered,” screeched Widow Anne, waving her skinny arms, and striving to break from Archie.  “You wicked old devil to kill my darling Sid.  If he hadn’t gone to them furren parts he wouldn’t be a corp now.  But I’ll have the lawr:  you’ll be hanged, you—­you—­”

Braddock lost his patience under this torrent of unjust accusations and rushed towards Mrs. Bolton, dragging Cockatoo by the arm.  In less time than it takes to tell, he had swept both Archie and the widow out into the hall, where Lucy was trembling, and Cockatoo, by his master’s order, was locking the door.

“Not a thing shall be touched until the police come.  Hope, you are, a witness that I have not meddled with the dead:  you were present when I opened the packing case:  you have seen that a useless body has been substituted for a valuable mummy.  And yet this old witch dares—­dares—­” Braddock stamped and grew incoherent from sheer rage.

Archie soothed him, leaving go of Widow Anne’s arm to do so.  “Hush! hush!” said the young man quietly, “the poor woman does not know what she is saying.  I’ll go for the police and—­”

“No,” interrupted the Professor sharply; “Cockatoo can go for the inspector of Pierside.  I shall call in the village constable.  Meanwhile you keep the key of the museum,” he dropped it into Hope’s breast-pocket, “so that you and the police may be sure the body has not been touched.  Widow Anne, go home,” he turned angrily on the old creature, who was now trembling after her burst of rage, “and don’t dare to come here again until you ask pardon for what you have said.”

“I want to be near my poor boy’s corp,” wailed Widow Anne, “and I’m very sorry, Perfesser.  I didn’t mean to—­”

“But you have, you witch.  Go away!” and he stamped.

But by this time Lucy had recovered her self-possession, which had been sorely shaken by the sight of the dead.  “Leave her to me,” she observed, taking Mrs. Bolton’s arm, and leading her towards the stairs.  “I shall take her to my room and give her some brandy.  Father, you must make some allowance for her natural grief, and—­”

Braddock stamped again.  “Take her away! take her away!” he cried testily, “and keep her out of my sight.  Is it not enough to have lost an invaluable assistant, and a costly mummy of infinite historical and archaeological value, without my being accused of—­of—­oh!” The Professor choked with rage and shook his hand in the air.