Seeing that he was unable to speak, Lucy seized the opportunity of the lull in the storm, and hurried the old woman, sobbing and moaning, up the stairs.  By this time the shrieks of Mrs. Bolton, and the wordy wrath of Braddock, had drawn the cook and her husband, along with the housemaid, from the basement to the ground floor.  The sight of their surprised faces only added to their master’s anger, and he advanced furiously.

“Go downstairs again:  go down, I tell you!”

“But if there’s anything wrong, sir,” ventured the gardener timidly.

“Everything is wrong.  My mummy has been lost:  Mr. Bolton has been murdered.  The police are coming, and—­and—­” He choked again.

But the servants waited to hear no more.  The mere mention of the words “murder” and “police” sent them, pale-faced and startled, down to the basement, where they huddled like a flock of sheep.  Braddock looked around for Hope, but found that he had opened the front door, and had vanished.  But he was too distracted to think why Archie had gone, and there was much to do in putting things straight.  Beckoning to Cockatoo, he stalked into a side room, and scribbled a pencil note to the inspector of police at Pierside, telling him of what had happened, and asking him to come at once to the Pyramids with his underlings.  This communication he dispatched by Cockatoo, who flew to get his bicycle.  In a short time he was riding at top speed to Brefort, which was on this side of the river; facing Pierside.  There he could ferry across to the town and deliver his terrible message.

Having done all that he could until the police came, Braddock walked out of the front door and into the roadway to see if Archie was in sight.  He could not see the young man, but, as luck would have it, and by one of those coincidences which are much more common than is suspected, he saw the Gartley doctor walking briskly past.

“Hi!” shouted the Professor, who was purple in the face and perspiring profusely.  “Hi, there, Dr. Robinson!  I want you.  Come! come! hurry, man, hurry!” he ended in a testy rage, and the doctor, knowing Braddock’s eccentricities, advanced with a smile.  He was a slim, dark, young medical practitioner with an amiable countenance, which argued of no mighty intelligence.

“Well, Professor,” he remarked quietly, “do you want me to attend you for apoplexy?  Take your time, my dear sir—­take your time.”  He patted the scientist on the shoulder to soothe his clamorous rage.  “You are already purple in the face.  Don’t let your blood rush to your head.”

“Robinson, you’re a—­a—­a fool!” shouted Braddock, glaring at the suave looks of the doctor.  “I am in perfect health, damn you, sir.”

“Then Miss Kendal—?”

“She is quite well also.  But Bolton—?”

“Oh!” Robinson looked interested.  “Has he returned with your mummy?”

“Mummy,” bellowed Braddock, stamping like an insane Cupid—­“the mummy hasn’t arrived.”