really don't know. And his mother has been here, making no end
of a fuss."

"Can you blame her?" said the doctor, recovering his breath.
"She is his mother, after all, and poor Bolton was her only son."

"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