"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 cut open the tin casing with

some sharp instrument. There was straw round the tin casing and straw

within, amongst which the body of the unfortunate young man was placed.

Rigor mortis had set in, and the corpse, with straight legs and hands

placed stiffly by its side, lay against the back of the tin casing

surrounded more or less by the straw packing, or at least by so much as

the Professor had not torn away. The face looked dark, and the eyes were

wide open and staring. Robinson stepped forward and ran his hand round

the neck. Uttering an ejaculation, he removed the woollen scarf which

the dead man had probably worn to keep himself from catching cold, and

those who looked on saw that a red-colored window cord was tightly bound

about the throat of the dead.

"The poor devil has been strangled," said the doctor quietly. "See: the

assassin has left the bow-string on, and had the courage to place over

it this scarf, which belonged to Bolton."

"How do you know that, sir?" asked Painter heavily.

"Because Widow Anne knitted that scarf for Bolton before he went

to Malta. He showed it to me, laughingly, remarking that his mother

evidently thought that he was going to Lapland."




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