THE MOONSTONE.

BY THE AUTHOR of "THE WOMAN IN WHITE," &c. &c.

CHAPTER XVIII.

Going down to the front door, I met the
Sergeant on the steps.

It went against the grain with me, after what
had passed between us, to show him that I felt
any sort of interest in his proceedings. In
spite of myself, however, I felt an interest that
there was no resisting. My sense of dignity
sank from under me, and out came the words:
"What news from Frizinghall?"

"I have seen the Indians," answered Sergeant
Cuff. " And I have found out what
Rosanna bought privately in the town, on Thursday
last. The Indians will be set free on Wednesday
in next week. There isn't a doubt on
my mind, and there isn't a doubt on Mr.
Murthwaite's mind, that they came to this
place to steal the Moonstone. Their calculations
were all thrown out, of course, by what
happened in the house on Wednesday night;
and they have no more to do with the actual
loss of the jewel than you have. But I can tell
you one thing, Mr. Betteredge—if we don't find
the Moonstone, they will. You have not heard
the last of the three jugglers yet."

Mr. Franklin came back from his walk as the
Sergeant said those startling words. Governing
his curiosity better than I had governed
mine, he passed us without a word, and went
on into the house.

As for me, having already dropped my dignity,
I determined to have the whole benefit of the
sacrifice. "So much for the Indians," I said.
"What about Rosanna, next?"

Sergeant Cuff shook his head.

"The mystery in that quarter is thicker than
ever," he said. "I have traced her to a shop
at Frizinghall, kept by a linendraper named
Maltby. She bought nothing whatever at any
of the other drapers' shops, or at any milliners'
or tailors' shops; and she bought nothing at
Maltby's but a piece of long cloth. She was
very particular in choosing a certain quality.
As to quantity, she bought enough to make a
nightgown."

"Whose nightgown?" I asked.

"Her own, to be sure. Between twelve and
three, on the Thursday morning, she must have
slipped down to your young lady's room, to
settle the hiding of the Moonstone while all the
rest of you were in bed. In going back to her
own room, her nightgown must have brushed
the wet paint on the door. She couldn't wash
out the stain; and she couldn't safely destroy
the nightgown—without first providing another
like it, to make the inventory of her linen complete."

"What proves that it was Rosanna's nightgown?"
I objected.

"The material she bought for making the
substitute dress," answered the Sergeant. "If
it had been Miss Verinder's nightgown, she
would have had to buy lace, and frilling, and
Lord knows what besides; and she wouldn't
have had time to make it in one night. Plain
long cloth means a plain servant's nightgown.
No, no, Mr. Betteredge—all that is clear enough.
The pinch of the question is—why, after having
provided the substitute dress, does she hide the
smeared nightgown, instead of destroying it?
If the girl won't speak out, there is only one
way of settling the difficulty. The hiding-place
at the Shivering Sand must be searched—and
the true state of the case will be discovered
there."

"How are you to find the place?" I inquired.

"I am sorry to disappoint you," said the
Sergeant —"but that's a secret which I mean
to keep to myself."

(Not to irritate your curiosity, as he irritated
mine, I may here inform you that he had
come back from Frizinghall provided with
a search-warrant. His experience in such
matters told him that Rosanna was, in all probability,
carrying about her a memorandum of
the hiding-place, to guide her, in case she returned
to it, under changed circumstances and
after a lapse of time. Possessed of this
memorandum, the Sergeant would be furnished with
all that he could desire.)

"Now, Mr. Betteredge," he went on, "suppose
we drop speculation, and get to business.
I told Joyce to have an eye on Rosanna.
Where is Joyce?"

Joyce was the Frizinghall policeman, who had
been left by Superintendent Seegrave at
Sergeant Cuff's disposal. The clock struck two,
as he put the question; and, punctual to the