“After all,” I said, in the same even tone, “it was found in his house. Now, I have a theory. Shall I tell you what it is?”
He could not well say “no,” though I noticed he was not anxious to listen to the expression of my views or theories on the subject.
“Well,” I continued, looking at him steadily, “I have a theory regarding that strange hole in the ceiling. Can you guess what it is?”
“I’m sure I can’t,” he said, rather uneasily. “What is it?”
“My belief is that the mummy has been for a long time hidden in that ceiling—between the ceiling and the floor above. They lifted the boards of the upper room to get the mummy out, when the ceiling, rotted by decay, fell down. That’s my belief. You will, I think, find in the end that I’m right, though the idea does not seem, as yet, to have occurred to anybody else.”
Whichelo laughed. It was obviously a forced laugh.
“By Jove! you have a vivid imagination, Ashton,” he said, “only I fear you won’t find many, if any, to agree with your theory. Why should the mummy have been hidden in the ceiling? Who would have hidden it? People usually have some reason for doing things,” he ended, with a touch of malice.
“They have,” I answered significantly. Then, unable to resist the impulse, I added with affected carelessness: “I suppose, if a man hid a bag of gold, he would have some reason for hiding it, especially if he hid it in a ceiling. What do you think?”
The man’s countenance blanched to the lips. His mouth twitched. He seemed unable to utter a word.
“What do you know?” he suddenly exclaimed hoarsely, clutching the arm of his chair with trembling fingers. Then he added, in a threatening tone: “Tell me!”