Lucy, inarticulate with nervous fear, nodded and tottered towards
the door of the museum; but Widow Anne refused to be lifted to
her feet.

"My boy is dead," she wailed; "my boy Sid is a corp as I saw him
in my dream. In the coffin, too, cut to pieces--"

"Rubbish! rubbish!" interrupted Braddock, peering into the depths
of the packing case. "I can see no wound."

Mrs. Bolton leaped to her feet with an agility surprising in so
aged a woman. "Let me find the wound," she screamed, throwing
herself forward.

Hope caught her back and forced her towards the door. "No! The
body must not be disturbed until the police see it," he said
firmly.

"The police--ah, yes, the police," remarked Braddock quickly,
"we must send for the police to Pierside and tell them my mummy
has been stolen."

"That my boy has been murdered," screeched Widow Anne, waving her
skinny arms, and striving to break from Archie. "You wicked old
devil to kill my darling Sid. If he hadn't gone to them furren
parts he wouldn't be a corp now. But I'll have the lawr: you'll
be hanged, you--you--"

Braddock lost his patience under this torrent of unjust