“I am not denying the relationship, confound you!” snapped the Professor, ruffling his hair until it stood up like the crest of a parrot. “But she needn't--ah!” He glanced through the open door, and then rushed to the threshold. “Here is Hope and Painter. Come in--come in. I have the doctor here. Hope, you have the key. You observe, constable, that Mr. Hope has the key. Open the door: open the door, and let us see the meaning of this dreadful crime.” “Crime, sir?” queried the constable, who had heard all that was known from Hope, but now wished to hear what Braddock had to say. “Yes, crime: crime, you idiot! I have lost my mummy.” “But I thought, sir, that a murder--” “Oh, of course--of course,” gabbled the Professor, as if the death was quite a minor consideration. “Bolton's dead--murdered, I suppose, as he could scarcely have nailed himself down in a packing case. But it's my precious mummy I am thinking of, Painter. A mummy--if you know what a mummy is--that cost me nine hundred pounds. Go in, man. Go in and don't stand there gaping. Don't you see that Mr. Hope has opened the door. I have sent Cockatoo to Pierside to notify the police. They will soon be here. Meanwhile, doctor, you can examine the body, and Painter here can give his opinion as to who stole my mummy.” “The assassin stole the mummy,” said Archie, as the four men entered the museum, “and substituted the body of the murdered man.” “That is all A B C,” snapped Braddock, issuing into the vast room, “but we want to know the name of the assassin, if we are to revenge Bolton and get back my mummy. Oh, what a loss!--what a loss! I have lost nine hundred pounds, or say one thousand, considering the cost of bringing Inca Caxas to England.” Archie forebore to remind the Professor as to who had really lost the money, as the scientist was not in a fit state to be talked to reasonably, and seemed much more concerned because his Peruvian relic of humanity had been lost than for the terrible death of Sidney Bolton. But by this time Painter--a fair-haired young constable of small intelligence--was examining the packing case and surveying the dead. Dr. Robinson also looked with a professional eye, and Braddock, wiping his purple face and gasping with exhaustion, sat down on a stone sarcophagus. Archie, folding his arms, leaned against the wall and waited quietly to hear what the experts in crime and medicine would say.