After the funeral, the journals made but few remarks about the mystery.  Every now and then it was hinted that a clue had been found, and that the police would sooner or later track down the criminal.  But all this loose chatter came to nothing, and as the days went by, the public—­in London, at all events—­lost interest in the case.  The enterprising weekly paper that had offered the furnished house and the life income to the person who found the assassin received an intimation from the Government that such a lottery could not be allowed.  The paper, therefore, returned to Limericks, and the amateur detectives, like so many Othellos, found their occupation gone.  Then a political crisis took place in the far East, and the fickle public relegated the murder of Bolton to the list of undiscovered crimes.  Even the Scotland Yard detectives, failing to find a clue, lost interest in the matter, and it seemed as though the mystery of Bolton’s death would not be solved until the Day of Judgment.

In the village, however, people still continued to be keenly interested, since Bolton was one of themselves, and, moreover, Widow Anne kept up a perpetual outcry about her murdered boy.  She had lost the small weekly sum which Sidney had allowed her out of his wages, so the neighbors, the gentry of the surrounding country, and the officers at the Fort sent her ample washing to do.  Widow Anne in a few weeks had quite a large business, considering the size of the village, and philosophically observed to a neighbor that “It was an ill wind which blew no one any good,” adding also that Sidney was more good to her dead than alive.  But even in Gartley the villagers grew weary of discussing a mystery which could never be solved, and so the case became rarely talked about.  In these days of bustle and worry and competition, it is wonderful how people forget even important events.  If a blue sun arose to lighten the world instead of a yellow one, after nine days of wonder, man would settle down quite comfortably to a cerulean existence.  Such is the wonderful adaptability of humanity.

Professor Braddock was less forgetful, as he always bore in mind the loss of his mummy, and constantly thought of schemes whereby he could trap the assassin of his late secretary.  Not that he cared for the dead in any way, save from a strictly business point of view, but the capture of the criminal meant the restitution of the mummy, and—­as Braddock told everyone with whom he came in contact—­he was determined to regain possession of his treasure.  He went himself to the Sailor’s Rest, and drove the landlord and his servants wild by asking tart questions and storming when a satisfactory answer could not be supplied.  Quass was glad when he saw the plump back of the cross little man, who so pertinaciously followed what everyone else had abandoned.

“Life was too short,” grumbled Quass, “to be bothered in that way.”