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.

The packing case was deep and wide and long, made of tough teak
and banded at intervals with iron bands. Within this was a case
of tin, which, when it held the mummy, had been soldered up;
impervious to air and water. But the unknown person who had
extracted the mummy, to replace it by a murdered man's body, had