apart. Beginning to smell mischief in the air,
I tried to take Sergeant Cuff out. He sat
down again instantly, and asked for a last little
drop of comfort out of the Dutch bottle. Mrs.
Yolland sat down opposite to him, and gave
him his nip. I went on to the door,
excessively uncomfortable, and said I thought I
must bid them good night—and yet I didn't go.

"So she means to leave?" says the Sergeant.
"What is she to do when she does leave? Sad,
sad! The poor creature has got no friends in
the world, except you and me."

"Ah, but she has though!" says Mrs.
Yolland. "She came in here, as I told you, this
evening; and, after sitting and talking a little
with my girl Lucy and me, she asked to go
up-stairs by herself into Lucy's room. It's the
only room in our place where there's pen and
ink. 'I want to write a letter to a friend,' she
says, 'and I can't do it for the prying and
peeping of the servants up at the house.' Who
the letter was written to I can't tell you: it
must have been a mortal long one, judging by
the time she stopped up-stairs over it. I offered
her a postage stamp when she came down. She
hadn't got the letter in her hand, and she didn't
accept the stamp. A little close; poor soul (as
you know), about herself and her doings. But
a friend she has got somewhere, I can tell
you; and to that friend, you may depend upon
it, she will go."

"Soon?" asked the Sergeant.

"As soon as she can," says Mrs. Yolland.

Here I stepped in again from the door. As
chief of my lady's establishment, I couldn't
allow this sort of loose talk about a servant of
ours going, or not going, to proceed any longer
in my presence, without noticing it.

"You must be mistaken about Rosanna
Spearman," I said. "If she had been going to
leave her present situation, she would have
mentioned it, in the first place, to me."

"Mistaken?" cries Mrs. Yolland. "Why,
only an hour ago she bought some things she
wanted for travelling—of my own self, Mr.
Betteredge, in this very room. And that
reminds me," says the wearisome woman, suddenly
beginning to feel in her pocket, "of something
I've got it on my mind to say about Rosanna and
her money. Are you either of you likely to see
her when you go back to the house?"

"I'll take a message to the poor thing, with
the greatest pleasure," answered Sergeant
Cuff, before I could put in a word edgewise.

Mrs. Yolland produced out of her pocket a
few shillings and sixpences, and counted them
out with a most particular and exasperating
carefulness in the palm of her hand. She
offered the money to the Sergeant, looking
mighty loth to part with it all the while.

"Might I ask you to give this back to
Rosanna, with my love and respects?" says
Mrs. Yolland. "She insisted on paying me for
the one or two things she took a fancy to
this evening—and money's welcome enough in
our house, I don't deny it. Still, I'm not easy
in my mind about taking the poor thing's little
savings. And to tell you the truth, I don't
think my man would like to hear that I had
taken Rosanna Spearman's money, when he
comes back to-morrow morning from his work.
Please say she's heartily welcome to the things
she bought of me—as a gift. And don't leave
the money on the table," says Mrs. Yolland,
putting it down suddenly before the Sergeant,
as if it burnt her fingers—"don't, there's a
good man! For times are hard, and flesh is
weak; and I might feel tempted to put it back
in my pocket again."

"Come along!" I said. " I can't wait any
longer; I must go back to the house."

"I'll follow you directly," says Sergeant
Cuff.

For the second time, I went to the door;
and, for the second time, try as I might, I
couldn't cross the threshold.

"It's a delicate matter, ma'am," I heard
the Sergeant say, "giving money back. You
charged her cheap for the things, I'm sure?"

"Cheap!" says Mrs. Yolland. "Come and
judge for yourself."

She took up the candle and led the Sergeant
to a corner of the kitchen. For the life of me,
I couldn't help following them. Shaken down
in the corner was a heap of odds and ends (mostly
old metal), which the fisherman had picked
up at different times from wrecked ships, and
which he hadn't found a market for yet, to his
own mind. Mrs. Yolland dived into this
rubbish, and brought up an old japanned tin case,
with a cover to it, and a hasp to hang it up by
—the sort of thing they use, on board ship, for
keeping their maps and charts, and such-like,
from the wet.

"There!" says she. "When Rosanna came
in this evening, she bought the fellow to that.
'It will just do,' she says, 'to put my cuffs and
collars in, and keep them from being crumpled
in my box.' One and ninepence, Mr. Cuff.
As I live by bread, not a halfpenny more!"

"Dirt cheap!" says the Sergeant, with a
heavy sigh.

He weighed the case in his hand. I thought
I heard a note or two of The Last Rose of
Summer as he looked at it. There was no
doubt now! He had made another discovery
to the prejudice of Rosanna Spearman, in the
place of all others where I thought her character
was safest, and all through me! I leave you
to imagine what I felt, and how sincerely I
repented having been the medium of introduction
between Mrs. Yolland and Sergeant Cuff.

"That will do," I said. "We really must
go."

Without paying the least attention to me,
Mrs. Yolland took another dive into the rubbish,
and came up out of it, this time, with a
dog-chain.

"Weigh it in your hand, sir," she said to
the Sergeant. "We had three of these; and
Rosanna has taken two of them. 'What can
you want, my dear, with a couple of dog's
chains?' says I. 'If I join them together
they'll go round my box nicely,' says she.
'Rope's cheapest,' says I. 'Chain's surest,' says
she. 'Who ever heard of a box corded with