"What do you suspect? It's no kindness to
hide it from me now."

"I don't suspect," said Sergeant Cuff. "I
know."

My unlucky temper began to get the better
of me again.

"Do you mean to tell me, in plain English,"
I said, "that Miss Rachel has stolen her own
Diamond?"

"Yes," says the Sergeant; "that is what I
mean to tell you, in so many words. Miss
Verinder has been in secret possession of the
Moonstone from first to last; and she has taken
Rosanna Spearman into her confidence,
because she has calculated on our suspecting
Rosauna Spearman of the theft. There is the
whole case in a nutshell. Collar me again,
Mr. Betteredge. If it's any vent to your feelings,
collar me again."

God help me! my feelings were not to be
relieved in that way. "Give me your reasons!"
That was all I could say to him.

"You shall hear my reasons to-morrow,"
said the Sergeant. "If Miss Verinder refuses
to put off her visit to her aunt (which you will
find Miss Verinder will do), I shall be obliged
to lay the whole case before your mistress
tomorrow. And, as I don't know what may
come of it, I shall request you to be present,
and to hear what passes on both sides. Let
the matter rest for to-night. No, Mr. Betteredge,
you don't get a word more on the subject
of the Moonstone out of me. There is your table
spread for supper. That's one of the many
human infirmities which I always treat
tenderly. If you will ring the bell, I'll say grace.
'For what we are going to receive——'"

"I wish you a good appetite to it, Sergeant,"
I said. "My appetite is gone. I'll wait and
see you served, and then I'll ask you to excuse
me, if I go away, and try to get the better of
this by myself."

I saw him served with the best of everything
— and I shouldn't have been sorry if the
best of everything had choked him. The head
gardener (Mr. Begbie) came in at the same
time, with his weekly account. The Sergeant
got on the subject of roses and the merits of
grass walks and gravel walks immediately. I
left the two together, and went out with a
heavy heart. This was the first trouble I
remember for many a long year which wasn't
to be blown off by a whiff of tobacco, and
which was even beyond the reach of Robinson
Crusoe.

Being restless and miserable, and having no
particular room to go to, I took a turn on the
terrace, and thought it over in peace and quietness
by myself. It doesn't much matter what
my thoughts were. I felt wretchedly old, and
worn out, and unfit for my place— and began to
wonder, for the first time in my life, when it
would please God to take me. With all this, I
held firm, notwithstanding, to my belief in Miss
Rachel. If Sergeant Cuff had been Solomon in
all his glory, and had told me that my young lady
had mixed herself up in a mean and guilty plot,
I should have had but one answer for Solomon,
wise as he was, "You don't know her: and I
do."

My meditations were interrupted by Samuel.
He brought me a written message from my
mistress.

Going into the house to get a light to read
it by, Samuel remarked that there seemed a
change coining in the weather. My troubled
mind had prevented me from noticing it before.
But, now my attention was roused, I heard
the dogs uneasy, and the wind moaning low.
Looking up at the sky, I saw the rack of
clouds getting blacker and blacker, and hurrying
faster and faster over a watery moon. Wild
weather coming— Samuel was right, wild
weather coming.

The message from my lady informed me, that
the magistrate at Frizinghall had written to
remind her about the three Indians. Early in the
coming week, the rogues must needs be released,
and left free to follow their own devices. If
we had any more questions to ask them, there
was no time to lose. Having forgotten to
mention this, when she had last seen Sergeant Cuff,
my mistress now desired me to supply the
omission. The Indians had gone clean out of
my head (as they have, no doubt, gone clean
out of yours). I didn't see much use in stirring
that subject again. However, I obeyed my
orders on the spot, as a matter of course.

I found Sergeant Cuff and the gardener,
with a bottle of Scotch whisky between them,
head over ears in an argument on the growing
of roses. The Sergeant was so deeply
interested that he held up his hand, and signed
to me not to interrupt the discussion, when I
came in. As far as I could understand it, the
question between them was, whether the white
moss rose did, or did not, require to be budded
on the dog rose to make it grow well. Mr.
Begbie said, Yes; and Sergeant Cuff said, No.
They appealed to me, as hotly as a couple of
boys. Knowing nothing whatever about the
growing of roses, I steered a middle course—
just as her majesty's judges do, when the scales
of justice bother them by hanging even to a
hair. "Gentlemen," I remarked, "there is much
to be said on both sides." In the temporary
lull produced by that impartial sentence, I laid
my lady's written message on the table, under
the eyes of Sergeant Cuff.

I had got by this time, as nearly as might be,
to hate the Sergeant. But truth compels me
to acknowledge that, in respect of readiness of
mind, he was a wonderful man.

In half a minute after he had read the
message, he had looked back into his memory for
Superintendent Seegrave's report; had picked
out that part of it in which the Indians were
concerned; and was ready with his answer. A
certain great traveller, who understood the
Indians and their language, had figured in Mr.
Seegrave's report, hadn't he? Very well. Did
I know the gentleman's name and address?
Very well again. Would I write them on the
back of my lady's message? Much obliged to