"Do you think Mr. Luker has taken the Moonstone home with him?" I asked.

"Not he," said Mr. Bruff. "He would never have dismissed his two

policemen, if he had run the risk of keeping the Diamond in his own

house again."

We waited another half-hour for the boy, and waited in vain. It was then

time for Mr. Bruff to go to Hampstead, and for me to return to Rachel in

Portland Place. I left my card, in charge of the porter at the chambers,

with a line written on it to say that I should be at my lodgings at half

past ten, that night. The card was to be given to the boy, if the boy

came back.

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Some men have a knack of keeping appointments; and other men have a

knack of missing them. I am one of the other men. Add to this, that I

passed the evening at Portland Place, on the same seat with Rachel, in a

room forty feet long, with Mrs. Merridew at the further end of it. Does

anybody wonder that I got home at half past twelve instead of half past

ten? How thoroughly heartless that person must be! And how earnestly I

hope I may never make that person's acquaintance!

My servant handed me a morsel of paper when he let me in.

I read, in a neat legal handwriting, these words--"If you please, sir, I

am getting sleepy. I will come back to-morrow morning, between nine and

ten." Inquiry proved that a boy, with very extraordinary-looking eyes,

had called, and presented my card and message, had waited an hour, had

done nothing but fall asleep and wake up again, had written a line for

me, and had gone home--after gravely informing the servant that "he was

fit for nothing unless he got his night's rest."

At nine, the next morning, I was ready for my visitor. At half past

nine, I heard steps outside my door. "Come in, Gooseberry!" I called

out. "Thank you, sir," answered a grave and melancholy voice. The door

opened. I started to my feet, and confronted--Sergeant Cuff.

"I thought I would look in here, Mr. Blake, on the chance of your being

in town, before I wrote to Yorkshire," said the Sergeant.

He was as dreary and as lean as ever. His eyes had not lost their old

trick (so subtly noticed in Betteredge's NARRATIVE) of "looking as if

they expected something more from you than you were aware of yourself."

But, so far as dress can alter a man, the great Cuff was changed beyond

all recognition. He wore a broad-brimmed white hat, a light shooting

jacket, white trousers, and drab gaiters. He carried a stout oak stick.

His whole aim and object seemed to be to look as if he had lived in the

country all his life. When I complimented him on his Metamorphosis,

he declined to take it as a joke. He complained, quite gravely, of the

noises and the smells of London. I declare I am far from sure that he

did not speak with a slightly rustic accent! I offered him breakfast.

The innocent countryman was quite shocked. HIS breakfast hour was

half-past six--and HE went to bed with the cocks and hens!




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