“The assassin stole the mummy,” said Archie, as the four men entered the museum, “and substituted the body of the murdered man.”

“That is all A B C,” snapped Braddock, issuing into the vast room, “but we want to know the name of the assassin, if we are to revenge Bolton and get back my mummy.  Oh, what a loss!—­what a loss!  I have lost nine hundred pounds, or say one thousand, considering the cost of bringing Inca Caxas to England.”

Archie forebore to remind the Professor as to who had really lost the money, as the scientist was not in a fit state to be talked to reasonably, and seemed much more concerned because his Peruvian relic of humanity had been lost than for the terrible death of Sidney Bolton.  But by this time Painter—­a fair-haired young constable of small intelligence—­was examining the packing case and surveying the dead.  Dr. Robinson also looked with a professional eye, and Braddock, wiping his purple face and gasping with exhaustion, sat down on a stone sarcophagus.  Archie, folding his arms, leaned against the wall and waited quietly to hear what the experts in crime and medicine would say.

The packing case was deep and wide and long, made of tough teak and banded at intervals with iron bands.  Within this was a case of tin, which, when it held the mummy, had been soldered up; impervious to air and water.  But the unknown person who had extracted the mummy, to replace it by a murdered man’s body, had cut open the tin casing with some sharp instrument.  There was straw round the tin casing and straw within, amongst which the body of the unfortunate young man was placed.  Rigor mortis had set in, and the corpse, with straight legs and hands placed stiffly by its side, lay against the back of the tin casing surrounded more or less by the straw packing, or at least by so much as the Professor had not torn away.  The face looked dark, and the eyes were wide open and staring.  Robinson stepped forward and ran his hand round the neck.  Uttering an ejaculation, he removed the woollen scarf which the dead man had probably worn to keep himself from catching cold, and those who looked on saw that a red-colored window cord was tightly bound about the throat of the dead.

“The poor devil has been strangled,” said the doctor quietly.  “See:  the assassin has left the bow-string on, and had the courage to place over it this scarf, which belonged to Bolton.”

“How do you know that, sir?” asked Painter heavily.

“Because Widow Anne knitted that scarf for Bolton before he went to Malta.  He showed it to me, laughingly, remarking that his mother evidently thought that he was going to Lapland.”

“When did he show it to you, sir?”

“Before he went to Malta, of course,” said Robinson in mild surprise.  “You don’t suppose he showed it to me when he returned.  When did he return to England?” he asked the Professor, with an afterthought.

“Yesterday afternoon, about four o’clock,” replied Braddock.