“Really, Professor, you surprise me,” said the doctor mildly.

“I’ll surprise you more,” growled Braddock, dragging Robinson into the garden and up the steps.

“Gently! gently! my dear sir,” said the doctor, who really began to think that much learning had made the Professor mad.  “Didn’t Bolton—?”

“Bolton is dead, you fool.”

“Dead!” The doctor nearly tumbled backward down the steps.

“Murdered.  At least I think he is murdered.  At all events he arrived here to-day in the packing case, which should have contained my green mummy.  Come in and examine the body at once.  No,” Braddock pushed back the doctor just as fiercely as he had dragged him forward, “wait until the constable comes.  I want him to see the body first, and to observe that nothing has been touched.  I have sent for the Pierside inspector to come.  There will be all sorts of trouble,” cried Braddock despairingly, “and my work—­most important work—­will be delayed, just because this silly young ass Sidney Bolton chose to be murdered,” and the Professor stormed up and down the hall, shaking impotent arms in the air.

“Good heavens!” stammered Robinson, who was young in years and somewhat new to his profession, “you—­you must be mistaken.”

“Mistaken! mistaken!” shouted Braddock with another glare.  “Come and see that poor fellow’s body then.  He is dead, murdered.”

“By whom?”

“Hang you, sir, how should I know?”

“In what way has he been murdered?  Stabbed, shot, or—­”

“I don’t know—­I don’t know!  Such a nuisance to lose a man like Bolton—­an invaluable assistant.  What I shall do without him I really don’t know.  And his mother has been here, making no end of a fuss.”

“Can you blame her?” said the doctor, recovering his breath.  “She is his mother, after all, and poor Bolton was her only son.”

“I am not denying the relationship, confound you!” snapped the Professor, ruffling his hair until it stood up like the crest of a parrot.  “But she needn’t—­ah!” He glanced through the open door, and then rushed to the threshold.  “Here is Hope and Painter.  Come in—­come in.  I have the doctor here.  Hope, you have the key.  You observe, constable, that Mr. Hope has the key.  Open the door:  open the door, and let us see the meaning of this dreadful crime.”

“Crime, sir?” queried the constable, who had heard all that was known from Hope, but now wished to hear what Braddock had to say.

“Yes, crime:  crime, you idiot!  I have lost my mummy.”

“But I thought, sir, that a murder—­”

“Oh, of course—­of course,” gabbled the Professor, as if the death was quite a minor consideration.  “Bolton’s dead—­ murdered, I suppose, as he could scarcely have nailed himself down in a packing case.  But it’s my precious mummy I am thinking of, Painter.  A mummy—­if you know what a mummy is—­that cost me nine hundred pounds.  Go in, man.  Go in and don’t stand there gaping.  Don’t you see that Mr. Hope has opened the door.  I have sent Cockatoo to Pierside to notify the police.  They will soon be here.  Meanwhile, doctor, you can examine the body, and Painter here can give his opinion as to who stole my mummy.”