The Green Mummy by Fergus Hume

Author:Fergus Hume
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Jovian Press

CHAPTER XV. AN ACCUSATION

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BOTH DON PEDRO AND PROFESSOR Braddock were amazed and angry at the disappearance of the jewels, but Hope did not express much surprise. Considering the facts of the murder, it was just what he expected, although it must be confessed that he was wise after the event.

“I refer you to your own words immediately before the case was opened, Professor,” he remarked, after the first surprise had subsided.

“Words! words!” snapped Braddock, who was anything but pleased. “What words of mine do you mean, Hope?”

“You said that it was not likely that any one would commit a murder for the sake of the mummy only, and then leave it stranded in Mrs. Jasher’s garden. Also, you declared that you had your doubts about the safety of the emeralds, else you would not have consented to sell the mummy again to its rightful owner.”

The Professor nodded.

“Quite so: quite so. And what I say I hold to,” he retorted, “especially as I have proved myself a true prophet. You can both see for yourselves,” he waved his hand towards the rifled case, “that poor Sidney must have been killed for the sake of the emeralds. The question is, who killed him?”

“The person who knew about the jewels,” said Don Pedro promptly.

“Of course: but who did know? I was ignorant until you told me about the manuscript. And you, Hope?” He searched Archie’s face.

“Do you intend to accuse me?” questioned the young man with a slight laugh. “I assure you, Professor, that I was ignorant of what had been buried with the corpse, until Don Pedro related his story the other night to myself and Random, and the ladies.”

Braddock turned impatiently to De Gayangos, as he did not approve of Archie’s apparent flippancy.

“Does any one else know of the contents of this manuscript?” he demanded irritably.

Don Pedro nursed his chin and looked musingly on the ground.

“It is just possible that Vasa may.”

“Vasa? Vasa? Oh yes, the sailor who stole the mummy thirty years ago from your father in Lima. Pooh! pooh! pooh! You tell me that this manuscript is written in Latin, and evidently in monkish Latin at that, which is of the worst. Your sailor could not read it, and would not know the value of the manuscript. If he had, he would have carried it off.”

“Senor,” said the Peruvian politely, “I have an idea that my father made a translation of this manuscript, or at all events a copy.”

“But I understood,” put in Hope, still astride of his chair, “that you did not find the original manuscript until your father died.”

“That is quite true, sir,” assented the other readily, “but I did not tell you everything the other night. My father it was who found the manuscript at Cuzco, and although I cannot state authoritatively, yet I believe I am correct in saying that he had a copy made. But whether the copy was merely a transcript or actually a translation, I cannot tell. I think it was the

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