chain?' says I. 'Oh, Mrs. Yolland, don't make
objections!' says she; 'let me have my chains!'
A strange girl, Mr. Cuff—good as gold, and
kinder than a sister to my Lucy but always a
little strange. There! I humoured her. Three
and sixpence. On the word of an honest
woman, three and sixpence, Mr. Cuff!"

"Each?" says the Sergeant.

"Both together!" says Mrs. Yolland. "Three
and sixpence for the two."

"Given away, ma'am," says the Sergeant,
shaking his head. "Clean given away!"

"There's the money," says Mrs. Yolland,
getting back sideways to the little heap of
silver on the table, as if it drew her in spite of
herself. "The tin case and the dog chains were
all she bought, and all she took away. One and
ninepence and three and sixpence—total, five
and three. With my love and respects—and I
can't find it in my conscience to take a poor
girl's savings, when she may want them herself."

"I can't find it in my conscience, ma'am, to
give the money back," says Sergeant Cuff.
"You have as good as made her a present of
the things—you have indeed."

"Is that your sincere opinion, sir?" says
Mrs. Yolland, brightening up wonderfully.

"There can't be a doubt about it," answered
the Sergeant. "Ask Mr. Betteredge."

It was no use asking me. All they got out
of me was, "Good night."

"Bother the money!" says Mrs. Yolland.
With those words, she appeared to lose all
command over herself; and, making a sudden
snatch at the heap of silver, put it back, holus-bolus,
in her pocket. "It upsets one's temper,
it does, to see it lying there, and nobody taking
it," cries this unreasonable woman, sitting down
with a thump, and looking at Sergeant Cuff, as
much as to say, "It's in my pocket again now
—get it out if you can!"

This time, I not only went to the door, but
went fairly out on the road back. Explain it
how you may, I felt as if one or both of them
had mortally offended me. Before I had taken
three steps down the village, I heard the
Sergeant behind me.

"Thank you for your introduction, Mr.
Betteredge," he said. "I am indebted to the
fisherman's wife for an entirely new sensation.
Mrs. Yolland has puzzled me."

It was on the tip of my tongue to have given
him a sharp answer, for no better reason than
this—that I was out of temper with him,
because I was out of temper with myself. But
when he owned to being puzzled, a comforting
doubt crossed my mind whether any great harm
had been done after all. I waited in discreet
silence to hear more.

"Yes," says the Sergeant, as if he was
actually reading my thoughts in the dark.
"Instead of putting me on the scent, it may
console you to know, Mr. Betteredge (with your
interest in Rosanna), that you have been the
means of throwing me off. What the girl has
done, to-night, is clear enough, of course. She
has joined the two chains, and has fastened
them to the hasp in the tin case. She has
sunk the case, in the water or in the quicksand.
She has made the loose end of the chain fast to
some place under the rocks, known only to
herself. And she will leave the case secure at its
anchorage till the present proceedings have
come to an end; after which she can privately
pull it up again out of its hiding-place, at her
own leisure and convenience. All perfectly
plain, so far. But," says the Sergeant, with
the first tone of impatience in his voice that I
had heard yet, "the mystery is—what the devil
has she hidden in the tin case?"

I thought to myself, "The Moonstone!" But
I only said to Sergeant Cuff, "Can't you
guess?"

"It's not the Diamond," says the Sergeant.
"The whole experience of my life is at fault,
if Rosanna Spearman has got the Diamond."

On hearing those words, the infernal
detective-fever began, I suppose, to burn in me
again. At any rate, I forgot myself in the
interest of guessing this new riddle. I said
rashly, "The stained dress!"

Sergeant Cuff stopped short in the dark, and
laid his hand on my arm.

"Is anything thrown into that quicksand of
yours, ever thrown up on the surface again?"
he asked.

"Never," I answered. "Light or heavy,
whatever goes into the Shivering Sand is sucked
down, and seen no more."

"Does Rosanna Spearman know that?"

"She knows it as well as I do."

"Then," says the Sergeant, "what on earth
has she got to do but to tie up a bit of stone in
the stained dress, and throw it into the quicksand?
There isn't the shadow of a reason why
she should have hidden it—and yet she must have
hidden it. Query," says the Sergeant, walking on
again, "is the paint-stained dress a petticoat or a
nightgown? or is it something else which there
is a reason for preserving at any risk? Mr.
Betteredge, if nothing occurs to prevent it, I
must go to Frizinghall to-morrow, and discover
what she bought in the town, when she
privately got the materials for making the substitute
dress. It's a risk to leave the house, as
things are now—but it's a worse risk still to
stir another step in this matter in the dark.
Excuse my being a little out of temper; I'm
degraded in my own estimation—I have let
Rosanna Spearman puzzle me."

When we got back, the servants were at
supper. The first person we saw in the outer
yard was the policeman whom Superintendent
Seegrave had left at the Sergeant's disposal.
The Sergeant asked if Rosanna Spearman had
returned. Yes. When? Nearly an hour since.
What had she done? She had gone up-stairs
to take off her bonnet and cloak—and she was
now at supper quietly with the rest.

Without making any remark, Sergeant Cuff
walked on, sulking lower and lower in his own
estimation, to the back of the house. Missing
the entrance in the dark, he went on (in spite
of my calling to him) till he was stopped by a
wicket-gate which led into the garden. When
I joined him to bring him back by the right