th me, Hastie, and do what I ask
you."

"Certainly, my boy."

"And bring a heavy stick with you."

"Hullo!" Hastie stared. "Here's a hunting-crop that would fell an ox."

"One other thing. You have a box of amputating knives. Give me the
longest of them."

"There you are. You seem to be fairly on the war trail. Anything
else?"

"No; that will do." Smith placed the knife inside his coat, and led the
way to the quadrangle. "We are neither of us chickens, Hastie," said
he. "I think I can do this job alone, but I take you as a precaution.
I am going to have a little talk with Bellingham. If I have only him
to deal with, I won't, of course, need you. If I shout, however, up
you come, and lam out with your whip as hard as you can lick. Do you
understand?"

"All right. I'll come if I hear you bellow."

"Stay here, then. It may be a little time, but don't budge until I
come down."

"I'm a fixture."

Smith ascended the stairs, opened Bellingham's door and stepped in.
Bellingham was seated behind his table, writing. Beside him, among his
litter of strange possessions, towered the mummy case, with its sale
number 249 still stuck upon its front, and its hideous occupant stiff
and stark within it. Smith looked very deliberately round him, closed
the door, locked it, took the key from the inside, and then stepping
across to the fireplace, struck a match and set the fire alight.
Bellingham sat staring, with amazement and rage upon his bloated face.

"Well, really now, you make yourself at home," he gasped.

Smith sat himself deliberately down, placing his watch upon the table,
drew out his pistol, cocked it, and laid it in his lap. Then he took
the long amputating knife from his bosom, and threw it down in front of
Bellingham.

"Now, then," said he, "just get to work and cut up that mummy."

"Oh, is that it?" said Bellingham with a sneer.

"Yes, that is it. They tell me that the law can't touch you. But I
have a law that will set matters straight. If in five minutes you have
not set to work, I swear by the God who made me that I will put a
bullet through your brain!"

"You would murder me?"

Bellingham had half risen, and his face was the colour of putty.

"Yes."

"And for what?"

"To stop your mischief. One minute has gone."

"But what have I done?"

"I know and you know."

"This is mere bullying."

"Two minutes are gone."

"But you must give reasons. You are a madman--a dangero