“So you did not hesitate to use the keys you had procured in your capacity as trustee to gain access to this fourth mummy here.” He turned to Grimsby and Coram. “Gentlemen,” he said, “there will be no prosecution. The fever of research is a disease; never a crime.” “I agree,” said Coram, “most certainly there must be no prosecution; no scandal. Mr. Pettigrew, I am very, very sorry for this.” Grimsby, with a rather wry face, removed the handcuffs. A singular expression proclaimed itself upon Pettigrew’s shrivelled countenance. “The thing I’m most sorry for,” he said, dryly, but with the true fever of research burning in his eyes, “if you will excuse me saying it, Coram, for I’m very deeply indebted to you--is that I can’t cut off the head of this fourth mummy!” Mr. Mark Pettigrew was a singularly purposeful and rudely truculent man. “It would be useless,” rumbled Moris Klaw. “I found the fifth mummy in Egypt two years ago! And behold”--he swept his hand picturesquely through the air--“I beheaded him!” “What!” screamed Pettigrew, and leapt upon Klaw with blazing eyes. “Ah,” rumbled Klaw, massive and unruffled, “that is the question--_what?_ And I shall not tell you!” From his pocket he took out the scent spray and squirted verbena into the face of Mr. Pettigrew. NINTH EPISODE. CASE OF THE HAUNTING OF GRANGE I A large lamp burned in the centre of the table; a red-shaded candle stood close by each diner; and the soft light made a brave enough show upon the snowy napery and spotless silver, but dispersed nothing of the gloom about us. The table was a lighted oasis in the desert of the huge apartment. One could barely pick out the suits of armour and trophies which hung from distant panelled walls, and I started repeatedly when the butler appeared, silent, at my elbow. Of the party of five, four were men--three of them (for I venture to include myself) neatly groomed and dressed with care in conventional dinner fashion. The fourth was a heavy figure in a dress coat with broad satin lapels such as I have seen, I think, in pictures of Victorian celebrities. I have no doubt, judging from its shiny appearance, that it was the workmanship of a Victorian tailor. The vest was cut high and also boasted lapels; the trousers, though at present they were concealed beneath the table, belonged to a different suit, possibly a mourning suit, and to a different sartorial epoch. The woman, young, dark, and exceedingly pretty, wore a gown of shimmering amber, cut with Parisian daring. Her beautiful eyes were more often lowered than raised, for Sir James Leyland, our host, was unable to conceal his admiration; his face, tanned by his life in the Bush, was often turned to her. Clement Leyland, the baronet’s cousin, bore a striking resemblance to Sir James, but entirely lacked the latter’s breezy manner. I set him down for a man who thought much and said little.