"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."

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"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?"




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