"Each?" says the Sergeant.
"Both together!" says Mrs. Yolland. "Three and sixpence for the two."
"Given away, ma'am," says the Sergeant, shaking his head. "Clean given
away!"
"There's the money," says Mrs. Yolland, getting back sideways to the
little heap of silver on the table, as if it drew her in spite of
herself. "The tin case and the dog chains were all she bought, and all
she took away. One and ninepence and three and sixpence--total, five and
three. With my love and respects--and I can't find it in my conscience
to take a poor girl's savings, when she may want them herself."
"I can't find it in MY conscience, ma'am, to give the money back,"
says Sergeant Cuff. "You have as good as made her a present of the
things--you have indeed."
"Is that your sincere opinion, sir?" says Mrs. Yolland brightening up
wonderfully.
"There can't be a doubt about it," answered the Sergeant. "Ask Mr.
Betteredge."
It was no use asking ME. All they got out of ME was, "Good-night."
"Bother the money!" says Mrs. Yolland. With these words, she appeared to
lose all command over herself; and, making a sudden snatch at the heap
of silver, put it back, holus-bolus, in her pocket. "It upsets one's
temper, it does, to see it lying there, and nobody taking it," cries
this unreasonable woman, sitting down with a thump, and looking at
Sergeant Cuff, as much as to say, "It's in my pocket again now--get it
out if you can!"
This time, I not only went to the door, but went fairly out on the
road back. Explain it how you may, I felt as if one or both of them had
mortally offended me. Before I had taken three steps down the village, I
heard the Sergeant behind me.
"Thank you for your introduction, Mr. Betteredge," he said. "I am
indebted to the fisherman's wife for an entirely new sensation. Mrs.
Yolland has puzzled me."
It was on the tip of my tongue to have given him a sharp answer, for no
better reason than this--that I was out of temper with him, because I
was out of temper with myself. But when he owned to being puzzled, a
comforting doubt crossed my mind whether any great harm had been done
after all. I waited in discreet silence to hear more.
"Yes," says the Sergeant, as if he was actually reading my thoughts in
the dark. "Instead of putting me on the scent, it may console you to
know, Mr. Betteredge (with your interest in Rosanna), that you have been
the means of throwing me off. What the girl has done, to-night, is clear
enough, of course. She has joined the two chains, and has fastened them
to the hasp in the tin case. She has sunk the case, in the water or
in the quicksand. She has made the loose end of the chain fast to some
place under the rocks, known only to herself. And she will leave the
case secure at its anchorage till the present proceedings have come
to an end; after which she can privately pull it up again out of its
hiding-place, at her own leisure and convenience. All perfectly plain,
so far. But," says the Sergeant, with the first tone of impatience in
his voice that I had heard yet, "the mystery is--what the devil has she
hidden in the tin case?"