"Yes, yes. But about the letter——?"

"If he wants the letter, he must come back
here, and get it from Me."

With those words she limped off on the way
to Cobb's Hole. The detective fever burnt up
all my dignity on the spot. I followed her,
and tried to make her talk. All in vain. It
was my misfortune to be a man—and Limping
Lucy enjoyed disappointing me. Later in the
day, I tried my luck with her mother. Good
Mrs. Yolland could only cry, and recommend a
drop of comfort out of the Dutch bottle. I
found the fisherman on the beach. He said it
was "a bad job," and went on mending his
net. Neither father nor mother knew more
than I knew. The one chance left to try was
the chance, which might come with the morning,
of writing to Mr. Franklin Blake.

I leave you to imagine how I watched for the
postman on Tuesday morning. He brought me
two letters. One, from Penelope (which I had
hardly patience enough to read), announced
that my lady and Miss Rachel were safely
established in London. The other, from Mr. Jeffco,
informed me that his master's son had left
England already.

On reaching the metropolis, Mr. Franklin
had, it appeared, gone straight to his father's
residence. He arrived at an awkward time.
Mr. Blake, the elder, was up to his eyes in the
business of the House of Commons, and was
amusing himself at home that night with the
favourite parliamentary plaything which they
call "a private bill." Mr. Jeffco himself showed
Mr. Franklin into his father's study. "My
dear Franklin! why do you surprise me in
this way? Anything wrong?" "Yes;
something wrong with Rachel; I am dreadfully
distressed about it." "Grieved to hear it.
But I can't listen to you now." "When can
you listen?" "My dear boy! I won't deceive
you. I can listen at the end of the session,
not a moment before. Good-night." "Thank
you, sir. Good-night."

Such was the conversation, inside the study,
as reported to me by Mr. Jeffco. The conversation,
outside the study, was shorter still.
"Jeffco, see what time the tidal train starts
to-morrow morning?" "At six-forty, Mr.
Franklin." "Have me called at five."
"Going abroad, sir?" "Going, Jeffco, wherever
the railway chooses to take me." "Shall I tell
your father, sir?" "Yes; tell him at the end
of the session."

The next morning Mr. Franklin had started
for foreign parts. To what particular place he
was bound, nobody (himself included) could
presume to guess. We might hear of him
next in Europe, Asia, Africa, or America. The
chances were as equally divided as possible,
in Mr. Jeffco's opinion, among the four quarters
of the globe.

This news—by closing up all prospect of
my bringing Limping Lucy and Mr. Franklin
together—at once stopped any further progress
of mine on the way to discovery. Penelope's
belief that her fellow-servant had destroyed
herself through unrequited love for Mr. Franklin
Blake, was confirmed—and that was all. Whether
the letter which Rosanna had left to be given
to him after her death did, or did not, contain
the confession which Mr. Franklin had
suspected her of trying to make to him in her life-time,
it was impossible to say. It might be
only a farewell word, telling nothing but the
secret of her unhappy fancy for a person beyond
her reach. Or it might own the whole truth
about the strange proceedings in which
Sergeant Cuff had detected her, from the time
when the Moonstone was lost, to the time when
she rushed to her own destruction at the
Shivering Sand. A sealed letter it had been placed
in Limping Lucy's hands, and a sealed letter it
remained to me and to every one about the girl,
her own parents included. We all suspected
her of having been in the dead woman's
confidence; we all tried to make her speak; we
all failed. Now one, and now another, of the
servants—still holding to the belief that Rosanna
had stolen the Diamond and had hidden it—
peered and poked about the rocks to which
she had been traced, and peered and poked in
vain. The tide ebbed, and the tide flowed;
the summer went on, and the autumn came.
And the Quicksand, which hid her body, hid
her secret too.

The news of Mr. Franklin's departure from
England on the Sunday morning, and the news
of my lady's arrival in London with Miss
Rachel on the Monday afternoon, had reached
me, as you are aware, by the Tuesday's post.
The Wednesday came, and brought nothing.
The Thursday produced a second budget of
news from Penelope.

My girl's letter informed me that some great
London doctor had been consulted about her
young lady, and had earned a guinea by remarking
that she had better be amused. Flower-shows,
operas, balls—there was a whole round of
gaieties in prospect; and Miss Rachel, to her
mother's astonishment, eagerly took to it all.
Mr. Godfrey had called; evidently as sweet as
ever on his cousin, in spite of the reception he
had met with, when he tried his luck on the
occasion of the birthday. To Penelope's great
regret, he had been most graciously received,
and had added Miss Rachel's name to one of
his Ladies' Charities on the spot. My mistress
was reported to be out of spirits, and to have
held two long interviews with her lawyer.
Certain speculations followed, referring to a
poor relation of the family—one Miss Clack,
whom I have mentioned in my account of the
birthday dinner, as sitting next to Mr. Godfrey,
and having a pretty taste in champagne.
Penelope was astonished to find that Miss Clack
had not called yet. She would surely not be
long before she fastened herself on my lady as
usual—and so forth, and so forth, in the way
women have of girding at each other, on and
off paper. This would not have been worth
mentioning, I admit, but for one reason. I hear
you are likely to be turned over to Miss Clack,