“Good heavens!” stammered Robinson, who was young in years and somewhat new to his profession, “you—you must be mistaken.”
“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.”