"Dead!" The doctor nearly tumbled backward down the steps.

"Murdered. At least I think he is murdered. At all events he
arrived here to-day in the packing case, which should have
contained my green mummy. Come in and examine the body at once.
No," Braddock pushed back the doctor just as fiercely as he had
dragged him forward, "wait until the constable comes. I want him
to see the body first, and to observe that nothing has been
touched. I have sent for the Pierside inspector to come. There
will be all sorts of trouble," cried Braddock despairingly, "and
my work--most important work--will be delayed, just because
this silly young ass Sidney Bolton chose to be murdered," and the
Professor stormed up and down the hall, shaking impotent arms in
the air.

"Good heavens!" stammered Robinson, who was young in years and
somewhat new to his profession, "you--you must be mistaken."

"Mistaken! mistaken!" shouted Braddock with another glare. "Come
and see that poor fellow's body then. He is dead, murdered."

"By whom?"

"Hang you, sir, how should I know?"

"In what way has he been murdered? Stabbed, shot, or--"

"I don't know--I don't know! Such a nuisance to lose a man like
Bolton--an invaluable assistant. What I shall do without him I