I found Sergeant Cuff and the gardener, with a bottle of Scotch whisky

between them, head over ears in an argument on the growing of roses. The

Sergeant was so deeply interested that he held up his hand, and signed

to me not to interrupt the discussion, when I came in. As far as I could

understand it, the question between them was, whether the white moss

rose did, or did not, require to be budded on the dog-rose to make

it grow well. Mr. Begbie said, Yes; and Sergeant Cuff said, No. They

appealed to me, as hotly as a couple of boys. Knowing nothing whatever

about the growing of roses, I steered a middle course--just as her

Majesty's judges do, when the scales of justice bother them by hanging

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even to a hair. "Gentlemen," I remarked, "there is much to be said on

both sides." In the temporary lull produced by that impartial sentence,

I laid my lady's written message on the table, under the eyes of

Sergeant Cuff.

I had got by this time, as nearly as might be, to hate the Sergeant. But

truth compels me to acknowledge that, in respect of readiness of mind,

he was a wonderful man.

In half a minute after he had read the message, he had looked back into

his memory for Superintendent Seegrave's report; had picked out that

part of it in which the Indians were concerned; and was ready with his

answer. A certain great traveller, who understood the Indians and their

language, had figured in Mr. Seegrave's report, hadn't he? Very well.

Did I know the gentleman's name and address? Very well again. Would

I write them on the back of my lady's message? Much obliged to me.

Sergeant Cuff would look that gentleman up, when he went to Frizinghall

in the morning.

"Do you expect anything to come of it?" I asked. "Superintendent

Seegrave found the Indians as innocent as the babe unborn."

"Superintendent Seegrave has been proved wrong, up to this time, in all

his conclusions," answered the Sergeant. "It may be worth while to

find out to-morrow whether Superintendent Seegrave was wrong about the

Indians as well." With that he turned to Mr. Begbie, and took up

the argument again exactly at the place where it had left off. "This

question between us is a question of soils and seasons, and patience

and pains, Mr. Gardener. Now let me put it to you from another point of

view. You take your white moss rose----"

By that time, I had closed the door on them, and was out of hearing of

the rest of the dispute.

In the passage, I met Penelope hanging about, and asked what she was

waiting for.

She was waiting for her young lady's bell, when her young lady chose

to call her back to go on with the packing for the next day's journey.

Further inquiry revealed to me, that Miss Rachel had given it as a

reason for wanting to go to her aunt at Frizinghall, that the house was

unendurable to her, and that she could bear the odious presence of a

policeman under the same roof with herself no longer. On being informed,

half an hour since, that her departure would be delayed till two in the

afternoon, she had flown into a violent passion. My lady, present at the

time, had severely rebuked her, and then (having apparently something

to say, which was reserved for her daughter's private ear) had sent

Penelope out of the room. My girl was in wretchedly low spirits about

the changed state of things in the house. "Nothing goes right,

father; nothing is like what it used to be. I feel as if some dreadful

misfortune was hanging over us all."




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