But by this time Lucy had recovered her self-possession, which
had been sorely shaken by the sight of the dead. "Leave her to
me," she observed, taking Mrs. Bolton's arm, and leading her
towards the stairs. "I shall take her to my room and give her
some brandy. Father, you must make some allowance for her
natural grief, and--"

Braddock stamped again. "Take her away! take her away!" he
cried testily, "and keep her out of my sight. Is it not enough
to have lost an invaluable assistant, and a costly mummy of
infinite historical and archaeological value, without my being
accused of--of--oh!" The Professor choked with rage and shook
his hand in the air.

Seeing that he was unable to speak, Lucy seized the opportunity
of the lull in the storm, and hurried the old woman, sobbing and
moaning, up the stairs. By this time the shrieks of Mrs. Bolton,
and the wordy wrath of Braddock, had drawn the cook and her
husband, along with the housemaid, from the basement to the
ground floor. The sight of their surprised faces only added to
their master's anger, and he advanced furiously.

"Go downstairs again: go down, I tell you!"

"But if there's anything wrong, sir," ventured the gardener
timidly.

"Everything is wrong. My mummy has been lost: Mr. Bolton has
been murdered. The police are coming, and--and--" He choked
again.