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.

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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 Cuff looked

through the evergreen arch on our left, spied out our rosery, and walked

straight in, with the first appearance of anything like interest that he

had shown yet. To the gardener's astonishment, and to my disgust,

this celebrated policeman proved to be quite a mine of learning on the

trumpery subject of rose-gardens.

"Ah, you've got the right exposure here to the south and sou'-west,"

says the Sergeant, with a wag of his grizzled head, and a streak

of pleasure in his melancholy voice. "This is the shape for a

rosery--nothing like a circle set in a square. Yes, yes; with walks

between all the beds. But they oughtn't to be gravel walks like these.

Grass, Mr. Gardener--grass walks between your roses; gravel's too hard

for them. That's a sweet pretty bed of white roses and blush roses. They

always mix well together, don't they? Here's the white musk rose, Mr.

Betteredge--our old English rose holding up its head along with the best

and the newest of them. Pretty dear!" says the Sergeant, fondling

the Musk Rose with his lanky fingers, and speaking to it as if he was

speaking to a child.




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