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 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.