at his present residence, near the town. At
Mr. Franklin's request, he had kindly given
them the benefit of his knowledge of the
language, in dealing with those two, out of the
three Indians, who knew nothing of English.
The examination, conducted carefully, and at
great length, had ended in nothing; not the
shadow of a reason being discovered for
suspecting the jugglers of having tampered with any
of our servants. On reaching that conclusion,
Mr. Franklin had sent his telegraphic message
to London, and there the matter now rested
till tomorrow came.

So much for the history of the day that
followed the birthday. Not a glimmer of light
had broken in on us, so far. A day or two
after, however, the darkness lifted a little.
How, and with what result, you shall presently
see.

CHAPTER XII.

THE Thursday night passed, and nothing
happened. With the Friday morning came two
pieces of news.

Item the first: The baker's man declared he
had met Rosanna Spearman, on the previous
afternoon, with a thick veil on, walking towards
Frizinghall by the footpath way over the moor.
It seemed strange that anybody should be
mistaken about Rosanna, whose shoulder marked
her out pretty plainly, poor thing — but mistaken
the man must have been; for Rosanna, as you
know, had been all the Thursday afternoon ill
upstairs in her room.

Item the second came through the postman.
Worthy Mr. Candy had said one more of his
many unlucky things, when he drove off in the
rain on the birthday night, and told me that a
doctor's skin was waterproof. In spite of his
skin, the wet had got through him. He had
caught a chill that night, and was now down
with a fever. The last accounts, brought by
the postman, represented him to be light-headed
—talking nonsense as glibly, poor man, in his
delirium as he often talked it in his sober senses.
We were all sorry for the little doctor; but Mr.
Franklin appeared to regret his illness, chiefly
on Miss Rachel's account. From what he said
to my lady, while I was in the room at breakfast-
time, he appeared to think that Miss Rachel—
if the suspense about the Moonstone was not
soon set at rest — might stand in urgent need of
the best medical advice at our disposal.

Breakfast had not been over long, when a
telegram from Mr. Blake, the elder, arrived, in
answer to his son. It informed us that he had
laid hands (through his friend, the Commissioner)
on the right man to help us. The name
of him was Serjeant Cuff; and the arrival of
him from London, might be expected by the
morning train.

At reading the name of the new police-officer,
Mr. Franklin gave a start. It seems that he
had heard some curious anecdotes about Serjeant
Cuff, from his father's lawyer, during his stay in
London. " I begin to hope we are seeing the
end of our anxieties already," he said. " If half
the stories I have heard are true, when it comes
to unravelling- a mystery, there isn't the equal
in England of Sergeant Cuff!"

We all got excited and impatient as the time
drew near for the appearance of this renowned
and capable character. Superintendent
Seegrave returning to us at his appointed time,
and hearing that the Sergeant was expected,
instantly shut himself up in a room, with pen, ink,
and paper, to make notes of the Report which
would be certainly expected from him. I should
have liked to have gone to the station myself, to
fetch the Sergeant. But my lady's carriage and
horses were not to be thought of, even for the
celebrated Cuff; and the pony-chaise was
required later for Mr. Godfrey. He deeply
regretted being obliged to leave his aunt at such
an anxious time; and he kindly put off the hour
of his departure till as late as the last train, for
the purpose of hearing what the clever London
police-officer thought of the case. But on Friday
night he must be in town, having a Ladies'
Charity, in difficulties, waiting to consult him
on Saturday morning.

When the time came for the Sergeant's arrival,
I went down to the gate to look out for him.

A fly from the railway drove up as I reached
the lodge; and out got a grizzled, elderly man,
so miserably lean that he looked as if he had not
got an ounce of flesh on his bones in any part
of him. He was dressed all in decent black,
with a white cravat round his neck. His face
was as sharp as a hatchet, and the skin of it was
as yellow and dry and withered as an autumn
leaf. His eyes, of a steely light grey, had a very
disconcerting trick, when they encountered your
eyes, of looking as if they expected something
more from you than you were aware of yourself.
His walk was soft; his voice was melancholy;
his long lanky fingers were hooked like
claws. He might have been a parson, or an
undertaker — or anything else you like, except
what he really was. A more complete opposite
to Superintendent Seegrave than Sergeant Cuff,
and a less comforting officer to look at, for a
family in distress, I defy you to discover, search
where you may.

"Is this Lady Verinder's?" he asked.

"Yes sir."

"I am Sergeant Cuff."

"This way, sir, if you please."

On our road to the house, I mentioned my
name and position in the family, to satisfy him
that he might speak to me about the business on
which my lady was to employ him. Not a word
did he say about the business, however, for all
that. He admired the grounds, and remarked
that he felt the sea air very brisk and refreshing.
I privately wondered, on my side, how the
celebrated Cuff had got his reputation. We reached
the house, in the temper of two strange dogs,
coupled up together for the first time in their
lives by the same chain.

Asking for my lady, and hearing that she was
in one of the conservatories, we went round to
the gardens at the back, and sent a servant to
seek her. While we were waiting, Sergeant