“What?—you?”
“Yes, me,” and the Professor stood on tip-toe, like the bantam he was.
“You make me smile, and likewise tired,” murmured Hervey, admiring the little man's pluck. “See here, Professor, touching that mummy?”
“My mummy: my green mummy. What about it?” Braddock rose to the fly thrown by this skilful angler.
“That's so. What will you shell out if I pass along that corpse?”
“Ah!” The Professor again stood on tip-toe, gasping and purple in the face. He almost squeaked in the extremity of his anger. “I knew it.”
“Knew what?” demanded the skipper, genuinely surprised.
“I knew that you had stolen my mummy. Yes, you needn't deny it. Bolton, like the silly fool he was, told you how valuable the mummy was, and you strangled the poor devil to get my property.”
“Go slow,” said the captain, in no wise perturbed by this accusation. “I would have you remember that at the inquest it was stated that the window was locked and the door was open. How then could I waltz into that blamed hotel and arrange for a funeral? 'Sides, I guess shooting is mor'n my line than garrotting. I leave that to the East Coast Yellow-Stomachs.”
Braddock sat down and wiped his face. He saw plainly enough that he had not a leg to stand on, as Hervey was plainly innocent.