way, I found that he was looking up attentively
at one particular window, on the bedroom floor,
at the back of the house.

Looking up, in my turn, I discovered that
the object of his contemplation was the window
of Miss Rachel's room, and that lights were
passing backwards and forwards there as if
something unusual was going on.

"Isn't that Miss Verinder's room?" asked
Sergeant Cuff.

I replied that it was, and invited him to
go in with me to supper. The Sergeant
remained in his place, and said something about
enjoying the smell of the garden at night. I
left him to his enjoyment. Just as I was turning
in at the door, I heard The Last Rose of
Summer at the wicket-gate. Sergeant Cuff had
made another discovery! And my young
lady's window was at the bottom of it this
time!

That latter reflection took me back again to
the Sergeant, with a polite intimation that I
could not find it in my heart to leave him by
himself. "Is there anything you don't
understand up there?" I added, pointing to Miss
Rachel's window.

Judging by his voice, Sergeant Cuff had
suddenly risen again to the right place in
his own estimation. "You are great people
for betting in Yorkshire, are you not?" he
asked.

"Well?" I said. "Suppose we are?"

"If I was a Yorkshireman," proceeded the
Sergeant, taking my arm, "I would lay you an
even sovereign, Mr. Betteredge, that your young
lady has suddenly resolved to leave the house.
If I won on that event, I should offer to lay
another sovereign, that the idea has occurred to
her within the last hour."

The first of the Sergeant's guesses startled
me. The second mixed itself up somehow in
my head with the report we had heard from the
policeman, that Rosanna Spearman had returned
from the sands within the last hour. The two
together had a curious effect on me as we went
in to supper. I shook off Sergeant Cuff's arm,
and, forgetting my manners, pushed by him
through the door to make my own inquiries for
myself.

Samuel, the footman, was the first person I
met in the passage.

"Her ladyship is waiting to see you and
Sergeant Cuff," he said, before I could put any
questions to him.

"How long has she been waiting?" asked
the Sergeant's voice behind me.

"For the last hour, sir."

There it was again! Rosanna had come
back; Miss Rachel had taken some resolution
out of the common; and my lady had been
waiting to see the Sergeant—all within the last
hour! It was not pleasant to find these very
different persons and things linking themselves
together in this way. I went on up-stairs,
without looking at Sergeant Cuff, or speaking
to him. My hand took a sudden fit of
trembling as I lifted it to knock at my mistress's
door.

"I shouldn't be surprised," whispered the
Sergeant over my shoulder, "if a scandal was
to burst up in the house to-night. Don't be
alarmed! I have put the muzzle on worse
family difficulties than this, in my time."

As he said the words, I heard my mistress's
voice calling to us to come in.

A PAIR OF HORSE-PICTURES.

AT the great Langham horse-dinner, I laughed
heartily in my sleeve when I heard purists
objecting to trifling matters of taste, which they
said affected their appetites—without, I'm bound
to say, giving the least evidence of the fact.
Their objections seemed sentimentally trivial
to a man who had spent hours in seeing
horses slaughtered and cut up,* and who
was about to see their flesh sold wholesale
for cats' meat. One of these superfine
gentlemen thought the veterinary surgeon's
certificate of the soundness of the animals
we were about to eat was out of place in
the drawing-room before dinner. Another
declared the wooden effigies of dead horses,
which grinned at us woodenly during the
banquet, were in bad taste. A third would
have it that " boiled withers," "farci," and
similar playfulnesses ought not to have been
on the bill of fare; and a fourth turned away
from the photographic portraits, declaring that
the sight of them made him ill.

"Do you mean to tell me that this is really
horse?" said one old gentleman, across the table,
in a timorous whisper, but with a tremendous
air of having discovered a mare's nest. "Horse
bonâ fide, you know; horse that's gone about,
perhaps, eh?" (This definition was given as if
it applied to a distinct species.) "You do!
God bless my soul! what are we coming to?
Horse, eh? Oh yes, I'm tasting it. Not bad,
I dare say." (Very patronising here.) "I don't
like the idea, though. Mere fancy, perhaps; but
I don't. So I'll wait a little, and look at you."
I never quite made out why this old gentleman
had come at all. Whether he was a peripatetic
public diner, who dropped in at great hotels
whenever he felt hungry, and sat down to
charity or other banquets, if they chanced to be
going on, or whether he had been hoaxed by
some friend, and had accepted an invitation
without comprehending its character, it was
impossible to say. But he seemed to partake
of everything; and when his plate was nearly
finished, to go through the old formula. "But
is this horse, eh now? Is it indeed? and you
like it? Well, I can't relish the idea myself;
but I'll look at you." Never were the advantages
of rapid eating better exemplified. Here
was by far the largest consumer of food within
our range calmly chewing the cud of bitter
fancies after each dish, and assuming all the
time a moral supremacy over his neighbours
which was unassailable. There were many people

* See EXTRAORDINARY HORSE DEALING, page
252.