is better than dreaming; and a year of experience is worth a century of theorising. All his life Darrel had sat in his study laboriously weaving romances out of such material as he had collected in his wanderings. Now, by a happy chance of fortune, he was about to step out of his ideal world into actual life, and take an active part in a real story. Already fate had laid the foundation of an intricate plot; and it was his business to work out to a fit conclusion the criminal problem presented to him. In his own mind Darrel considered the task impossible.
Conceive the difficulties of the case. A man--name unknown--meets with, and is murdered by, a woman. This woman--also unknown--goes to keep tryst with an individual--either male or female--and is killed by him, or her. This was all the material upon which Darrel had to work, and it may be guessed that his heart failed him at the meagre detail afforded by the affair. The sole clues were two clay images coloured blue; the initials 'J.G.' marked on the murdered man's linen; and the possible chance of extracting useful information from a cabman. Yet starting from these three points, Torry hoped to arrive at the goal he aimed at, viz.: to capture, and condemn, and hang, the guilty individual. Darrel could not with-hold his admiration at the determination of the little man.
"Detective fiction is easier to follow than detective fact," said Darrel to himself as he prepared to go out. "With the materials supplied by this Mortality-lane case, I could work out a very fair novel. Fate, Fortune, Destiny, or whosoever is designing this actual romance will develop it in quite a different way, no doubt. Well"--he put on his hat--"I am one of the actors in the drama, and it is my turn to step on to the stage. Here goes for an elucidation of the Blue Mummy Mystery."
Rather amused by his own ideas, Darrel stepped into a hansom, and drove to his friend's rooms near the British Museum. In his pocket he carried the grotesque little image from which he hoped to learn so much. Luckily the Egyptologist--Patron was his name--proved to be at home, a long, lean savant with grizzled hair and spectacles. He received Darrel very amiably, for they were old friends, and had been fellow-students at Oxford. Frank looked still young and blooming, as was natural at the age of five-and-twenty; but Patron, though barely thirty, was already aged by hard study and a misanthropic temperament. In the hands of this prematurely old individual Darrel placed the image.
"Look at the Egyptian mummy, old fellow," said he taking a seat, "and tell me what you think of it."
Mr. Patron stroked his cheek and chin; examined the azure idol through his learned spectacles, and contradicted Frank in a clear, calm voice. "As usual, my dear Darrel, you speak without thinking," said he, "the image is not Egyptian at all."
"It is the representation of a mummy," protested Frank, "and I always understood that the Egyptians were the only people who salted and dried their dead."
"Then you understood wrongly," contradicted Patron. "The ancient Peruvians also embalmed their dead. This is the image of a Peruvian mummy."
"How do you know?" asked Darrel, rather amazed at this remark.
"Don't you see the representation of the sun on its breast?" snapped the other. "The ancient Peruvians were sun-worshippers. Judging from the solar symbol, I should say that this mummy comes from the tomb of some Inca. It is--what we call--a tomb image."
"What is that?" questioned the visitor.
Patron cleared his throat, adjusted his spectacles, and prepared for a long historical lecture. "In common with certain Asiatic nations," said he, "the ancient Peruvians practised the barbarous custom of immolating victims at the obsequies of great men. Sometimes--according to Prescott--a thousand attendants and favourite concubines would be slaughtered, so that they might accompany the dead Inca to his bright mansion in the sun. On occasions, however, the actual slaughter was dispensed with, and images of clay in the form of mummies, such as we see here," said the savant, pointing to the blue figure, "were substituted for human beings. For every counsellor, or slave, or wife, or attendant, a clay image was placed in the sepulchre of the dead; so that, in such instance, there would be many hundreds of these fictitious mummies arranged round the corpse. The figure we have here is an example of a tomb image. I hope I make myself clear?"
"Perfectly," rejoined Darrel, slipping the image into his pocket. "But your lecture does not help me in the least."
"In what way? Where did you get the mummy?" questioned Patron disconnectedly.
"Out of a murdered woman's pocket."
"Bless me! how strange! Why was she murdered? And how did she become possessed of so unique a curiosity as a Peruvian tomb-image?
"Patron, my friend, those are two questions to which I am trying to obtain an answer."
"If I can help you, Darrel----"
"Thank you; Patron; but I fear you can help me no further. Good-day."
"Good-day, good-day," replied the Egyptologist hastily; for his mind was already reverting to his own particular work, and he was becoming oblivious to the story told by his visitor. "Good-day;" after which he soared into cloudland.
Darrel went away little satisfied with his visit. He had obtained certain historical information, but none likely to throw any light on the mystery of the double crime. The Blue Mummy was connected with the murders in some concealed way, independent of its archæological merits; and it was this hidden connection which Darrel desired to discover. At present, however, he could not see the slightest chance of gaining the necessary information; therefore, this especial clue was absolutely useless--at all events for the time being. Later on its value might be discovered and utilised; but in the meantime, Frank dismissed it, to follow up the clue of the initials on the linen of the dead man. To accomplish this he drove directly to Bond-street.
The mere fact that the red-haired man--as in the absence of an actual name it is convenient to call him--was in the habit of dealing with Harcot and Harcot, shewed that he must have been, if not rich, at least fairly well off. The shop, as Darrel knew, was a very expensive one, and the goods it supplied were sold at much above their market value, from the fact that they were supposed to be particularly fashionable. Darrel carried with him the shirt of the dead man which had been confided to him by Torry; and this he displayed to the eyes of the senior partner. Mr. Harcot was a tall, stately-looking man, more like a Duke than a shopkeeper, and after examining the shirt through his pince-nez, he inquired loftily what it was Mr. Darrel desired to know. Darrel promptly supplied the information.
"I wish to learn what those initials stand for," said he, laying his forefinger on the letters 'J.G.'
"May I ask why!"
Darrel reflected. "I see no reason why you should not know," he remarked; "but you must respect my confidence."
"Certainly, sir, certainly," replied Harcot, whose curiosity was now excited. "Please come this way where we shall not be disturbed."
The tradesman led the way into a small room partitioned off from the shop by a glass screen and on closing the door of this, he handed Darrel a chair with great politeness.
"I await your explanation, sir," he said, smoothing out the shirt on the table.
"One moment," said Frank quickly. "If I tell you my reason for asking this question, and you agree to answer it, can I rely on your being able to give me the desired information?"
"Assuredly, sir. You will observe that under these letters 'J.G.' there is a number, one thousand four hundred and twenty. Well, sir, we index, so to speak, all shirts of our manufacture in that way; and--should your reason for seeking
