“I do,” replied Thorndyke.  “There was a mark on the right side of the skull that looked rather like a fracture.  It was not very clear, being at the side, but we must develop up the next negative to show it.”

Dr. Norbury drew his breath in sharply through his teeth.  “This is a gruesome business, Doctor,” said he.  “A terrible business.  Awkward for our people, too.  By the way, what is our position in the matter?  What steps ought we to take?”

“You should give notice to the coroner—­I will manage the police—­and you should communicate with one of the executors of the will.”

“Mr. Jellicoe?”

“No, not Mr. Jellicoe, under the peculiar circumstances.  You had better write to Mr. Godfrey Bellingham.”

“But I rather understood that Mr. Hurst was the co-executor,” said Dr. Norbury.

“He is surely, as matters stand,” said Jervis.

“Not at all,” replied Thorndyke.  “He was as matters stood; but he is not now.  You are forgetting the conditions of clause two.  That clause sets forth the conditions under which Godfrey Bellingham shall inherit the bulk of the estate and become the co-executor; and those conditions are:  ’that the body of the testator shall be deposited in some authorised place for the reception of the bodies of the dead, situate within the boundaries of, or appertaining to some place of worship within, the parish of St. George, Bloomsbury, and St. Giles in the Fields or St. Andrew above the Bars and St. George the Martyr.’  Now Egyptian mummies are the bodies of the dead, and this Museum is an authorised place for their reception; and this building is situate within the boundaries of the parish of St. George, Bloomsbury.  Therefore the provisions of clause two have been duly carried out and therefore Godfrey Bellingham is the principal beneficiary under the will, and the co-executor, in accordance with the wishes of the testator.  Is that quite clear?”

“Perfectly,” said Dr. Norbury; “and a most astonishing coincidence—­but, my dear young lady, had you not better sit down?  You are looking very ill.”

He glanced anxiously at Ruth, who was pale to the lips and was now leaning heavily on my arm.

“I think, Berkeley,” said Thorndyke, “you had better take Miss Bellingham out into the gallery, where there is more air.  This has been a tremendous climax to all the trials that she has borne so bravely.  Go out with Berkeley,” he added gently, laying his hand on her shoulder, “and sit down while we develop the other negatives.  You mustn’t break down now, you know, when the storm has passed and the sun is beginning to shine.”  He held the door open, and as we passed out his face softened into a smile of infinite kindness.  “You won’t mind my locking you out,” said he; “this is a photographic dark-room at present.”

The key grated in the lock and we turned away into the dim gallery.  It was not quite dark, for a beam of moonlight filtered in here and there through the blinds that covered the sky-lights.  We walked on slowly, her arm linked in mine, and for a while neither of us spoke.  The great rooms were very silent and peaceful and solemn.  The hush, the stillness, the mystery of the half-seen forms in the cases around, were all in harmony with the deeply-felt sense of a great deliverance that filled our hearts.