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