“Who by?”

“No doubt by the assassin who murdered poor Sidney.”

Hervey spat on the floor, and his weather-beaten face took on an expression of, profound regret.

“I guess I’m a fool of the best.”

“Why?” asked Braddock, again puzzled.

“To think,” said Hervey, addressing the mummy, “that you were on board my boat, and I never looted you.”

“What!” Braddock stamped.  “Would you have committed theft?”

“Theft be hanged!” was the reply.  “It ain’t thieving to loot the dead.  I guess a corpse hasn’t got any use for jewels.  You bet I’d have gummed straightways onto that mummy, when I brought it from Malta in the old Diver, had I known it was a jeweler’s shop of sorts.  Huh!  Two emeralds, and I never knew.  I could kick myself.”

“You are a blackguard,” gasped the astonished Professor.

“Oh, shucks!” was the elegant retort, “give it a rest.  I’m no worse than that dandy gentleman who added murder to stealing, anyhow.”

“Ah!” Braddock bounded off his chair like an india-rubber ball, “you said that you knew who had committed the murder.”

“Wal,” drawled Hervey again, “I do and I don’t.  That is I suspect, but I can’t swear to the business before a judge.”

“Who killed Bolton?” asked the Professor furiously.  “Tell me at once.”

“Not me, unless it’s made worth my while.”

“It will be, by Don Pedro.”

“That yellow-stomach.  What’s he got to do with it?”

“I have just told you the mummy belongs to him; he came to Europe to find it.  He wants the emeralds, and intends to offer a reward of one hundred pounds for the discovery of the assassin.”

Hervey arose briskly.

“I’m right on the job,” said he, sauntering to the door.  “I’ll go to that old inn of yours, where you say the Don’s stopping, and look him up.  Guess I’ll trade.”

“But who killed Bolton?” asked Braddock, running to the door and gripping Hervey by his coat.

The mariner looked down on the anxious face of the plump little man with a grim smile.

“I can tell you,” said he, “as you can’t figure out the business, unless I’m on the racket.  No, sir; I’m the white boy in thin circus.”

The Professor shook the lean sailor in his anxiety.

“Who is he?”

“That almighty aristocrat that came on board my ship, when I lay in the Thames on the very afternoon I arrived with Bolton.”

“Who do you mean?” demanded Braddock, more and more perplexed.

“Sir Frank Random.”

“What! did he kill Bolton and steal my mummy?”

“And hide it in that garden on his way to the Fort?  I guess he did.”

The Professor sat down and closed his eyes with horror.  When he opened them again, Hervey was gone.

CHAPTER XVI

THE MANUSCRIPT AGAIN