any living creature. In the second place,
the Diamond is not now, and never has
been, in her possession, since she put it into
her cabinet on Wednesday night.

"'The confidence which my daughter has
placed in me goes no further than this. She
maintains an obstinate silence, when I ask her
if she can explain the disappearance of the
Diamond. She refuses, with tears, when I
appeal to her to speak out for my sake.
"The day will come when you will know
why I am careless about being suspected, and
why I am silent even to you. I have done
much to make my mother pity me—nothing to
make my mother blush for me." Those are
my daughter's own words.

"'After what has passed between the officer
and me, I think—stranger as he is—that he
should be made acquainted with what Miss
Verinder has said, as well as you. Read my
letter to him, and then place in his hands the
cheque which I enclose. In resigning all
further claim on his services, I have only to say
that I am convinced of his honesty and his
intelligence; but I am more firmly persuaded
than ever, that the circumstances, in this case,
have fatally misled him.'"

There the letter ended. Before presenting
the cheque, I asked Sergeant Cuff if he had any
remark to make.

"It's no part of my duty, Mr. Betteredge,"
he answered, "to make remarks on a case, when
I have done with it."

I tossed the cheque across the table to him.
"Do you believe in that part of her ladyship's
letter?" I said, indignantly.

The Sergeant looked at the cheque, and lifted
his dismal eyebrows in acknowledgment of her
ladyship's liberality.

"This is such a generous estimate of the
value of my time," he said, "that I feel bound
to make some return for it. I'll bear in mind
the amount in this cheque, Mr. Betteredge,
when the occasion comes round for
remembering it."

"What do you mean?" I asked.

"Her ladyship has smoothed matters over for
the present very cleverly," said the Sergeant.
"But this family scandal is of the sort that bursts
up again when you least expect it. We shall
have more detective business on our hands, sir,
before the Moonstone is many months older."

If those words meant anything, and if the
manner in which he spoke them meant
anything—it came to this. My mistress's letter
had proved, to his mind, that Miss Rachel was
hardened enough to resist the strongest appeal
that could be addressed to her, and that she
had deceived her own mother (good God, under
what circumstances!) by a series of abominable
lies. How other people, in my place,
might have replied to the Sergeant, I don't
know. I answered what he had said in these
plain terms:

"Sergeant Cuff, I consider your last observation
as an insult to my lady and her daughter!"

"Mr. Betteredge, consider it as a warning
to yourself, and you will be nearer the
mark."

Hot and angry as I was, the infernal confidence
with which he gave me that answer
closed my lips.

AMONGST RUSSIAN PEASANTRY.

IT is growing late in autumn, and I have
travelled night and day for the last week with a
Russian gentleman returning to his estates to
sell the produce of his last harvest. We have
been spending a delightful summer together on
the Lake of Geneva; and now the pleasant and
gracious ladies of his family, who have made
the time pass so gaily, have winged their way
to Nice for the winter. We are to rejoin them
in something less than a month, when my friend
has settled his affairs, and shown me something
of country life in Russia. We have scarcely
quitted the railroad when this life begins. A light
open carriage waits for us at the station,
together with a cart for our luggage: and the last
we see of civilisation is a board before a
tea-shop, on which is coarsely painted
"Various of Rhums," signifying that rum of different
qualities is to be bought there; though why
the announcement is made in English is not
so clear.

It is soon easy to see we are in Russia.
Nearly every person in decent clothes wears a
uniform. The uniform appears, indeed, chiefly,
if not altogether, in the buttons; but it is
unmistakable. There is also a certain air of
restraint—a mingled look of fear and watchfulness
—about people, which is especially Russian.
The man who rides in the post-cart with our
luggage is naturally in uniform, because he is a
post-office clerk, and has been given to us by
the local director of that establishment as a
concession to the rank and local influence of
my companion, who has to pay handsomely
for the honour notwithstanding. It is cheap,
however, at any price; for no sooner are
that clerk's buttons visible at any post-house
on the road than all the resources of the
establishment are put in force to get us horses on
as quickly as possible. At whatever hour of
the day or night we may gallop up, the clerk
uses some irresistible "open Sesame," and
lights soon begin to flash, and a whole village
is astir, although five minutes previously it was
sunk in the very depths of silence and sleep.
We can get nothing to eat anywhere, but now
and then our servant, a nimble Pole (count, of
course), brings us a tumbler of hot fragrant
tea, the colour of amber, made from a store
he carries with him. Hot water is to be had
at all times in the post stations—nothing more.
There is no temptation to remain for rest or
refreshment at any of them. They are all kept
by dirty, surly peasants, and consist of an
uncarpeted, whitewashed, oblong hole on the
ground-floor, with a greasy sofa, two chairs, a
slimy table, and a paralytic looking-glass. This