“Yes, yes!” he said in return.  “But there is just a chance—­a very poor one, certainly—­that Rosanna’s conduct may admit of some explanation which we don’t see at present.  I hate hurting a woman’s feelings, Betteredge!  Tell the poor creature what I told you to tell her.  And if she wants to speak to me—­I don’t care whether I get into a scrape or not—­send her to me in the library.”  With those kind words he laid down the cue and left me.

Inquiry at the servants’ offices informed me that Rosanna had retired to her own room.  She had declined all offers of assistance with thanks, and had only asked to be left to rest in quiet.  Here, therefore, was an end of any confession on her part (supposing she really had a confession to make) for that night.  I reported the result to Mr. Franklin, who, thereupon, left the library, and went up to bed.

I was putting the lights out, and making the windows fast, when Samuel came in with news of the two guests whom I had left in my room.

The argument about the white moss rose had apparently come to an end at last.  The gardener had gone home, and Sergeant Cuff was nowhere to be found in the lower regions of the house.

I looked into my room.  Quite true—­nothing was to be discovered there but a couple of empty tumblers and a strong smell of hot grog.  Had the Sergeant gone of his own accord to the bed-chamber that was prepared for him?  I went up-stairs to see.

After reaching the second landing, I thought I heard a sound of quiet and regular breathing on my left-hand side.  My left-hand side led to the corridor which communicated with Miss Rachel’s room.  I looked in, and there, coiled up on three chairs placed right across the passage—­there, with a red handkerchief tied round his grizzled head, and his respectable black coat rolled up for a pillow, lay and slept Sergeant Cuff!

He woke, instantly and quietly, like a dog, the moment I approached him.

“Good night, Mr. Betteredge,” he said.  “And mind, if you ever take to growing roses, the white moss rose is all the better for not being budded on the dog-rose, whatever the gardener may say to the contrary!”

“What are you doing here?” I asked.  “Why are you not in your proper bed?”

“I am not in my proper bed,” answered the Sergeant, “because I am one of the many people in this miserable world who can’t earn their money honestly and easily at the same time.  There was a coincidence, this evening, between the period of Rosanna Spearman’s return from the Sands and the period when Miss Verinder stated her resolution to leave the house.  Whatever Rosanna may have hidden, it’s clear to my mind that your young lady couldn’t go away until she knew that it was hidden.  The two must have communicated privately once already to-night.  If they try to communicate again, when the house is quiet, I want to be in the way, and stop it.  Don’t blame me for upsetting your sleeping arrangements, Mr. Betteredge—­blame the Diamond.”