"
"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
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.
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