Abercrombie Smith was not an entirely pleasant man to have as an enemy. Slow and easy-tempered, he was formidable when driven to action. He brought to every purpose in life the same deliberate resoluteness which had distinguished him as a scientific student. He had laid his studies aside for a day, but he intended that the day should not be wasted. Not a word did he say to his host as to his plans, but by nine o’clock he was well on his way to Oxford. In the High Street he stopped at Clifford’s the gunmaker’s, and bought a heavy revolver, with a box of central-fire cartridges. Six of them he slipped into the chambers, and half-cocking the weapon, placed it in the pocket of his coat. He then made his way to Hastie’s rooms, where the big oarsman was lounging over his breakfast, with the _Sporting Times_ propped up against the coffee-pot. “Hullo! What’s up?” he asked. “Have some coffee?” “No, thank you. I want you to come with me, Hastie, and do what I ask you.” “Certainly, my boy.” “And bring a heavy stick with you.” “Hullo!” Hastie stared. “Here’s a hunting crop that would fell an ox.” “One other thing. You have a box of amputating knives. Give me the longest of them.” “There you are. You seem to be fairly on the war trail. Anything else?” “No; that will do.” Smith placed the knife inside his coat, and led the way to the quadrangle. “We are neither of us chickens, Hastie,” said he. “I think I can do this job alone, but I take you as a precaution. I am going to have a little talk with Bellingham. If I have only him to deal with, I won’t, of course, need you. If I shout, however, up you come, and lam out with your whip as hard as you can lick. Do you understand?” “All right. I’ll come if I hear you bellow.” “Stay here, then. I may be a little time, but don’t budge until I come down.” “I’m a fixture.” Smith ascended the stairs, opened Bellingham’s door and stepped in. Bellingham was seated behind his table, writing. Beside him, among his litter of strange possessions, towered the mummy case, with its sale number 249 still stuck upon its front, and its hideous occupant stiff and stark within it. Smith looked very deliberately round him, closed the door, and then stepping across to the fire-place, struck a match and set the fire alight. Bellingham sat staring, with amazement and rage upon his bloated face. “Well, really now, you make yourself at home,” he gasped. Smith sat himself deliberately down, placing his watch upon the table, drew out his pistol, cocked it, and laid it in his lap. Then he took the long amputating knife from his bosom, and threw it down in front of Bellingham. “Now, then,” said he, “just get to work and cut up that mummy.” “Oh, is that it?” said Bellingham with a sneer. “Yes, that is it. They tell me that the law can’t touch you. But I have a law that will set matters straight. If in five minutes you have not set to work, I swear by the God who made me that I will put a bullet through your brain!”