“You haven’t said anything to her yet about last night, have you?” Mr. Franklin asked.

“No, sir.”

“Then say nothing now.  I had better not invite the girl’s confidence, with the Sergeant on the look-out to surprise us together.  My conduct is not very consistent, Betteredge—­is it?  I see no way out of this business, which isn’t dreadful to think of, unless the Diamond is traced to Rosanna.  And yet I can’t, and won’t, help Sergeant Cuff to find the girl out.”

Unreasonable enough, no doubt.  But it was my state of mind as well.  I thoroughly understood him.  If you will, for once in your life, remember that you are mortal, perhaps you will thoroughly understand him too.

The state of things, indoors and out, while Sergeant Cuff was on his way to Frizinghall, was briefly this: 

Miss Rachel waited for the time when the carriage was to take her to her aunt’s, still obstinately shut up in her own room.  My lady and Mr. Franklin breakfasted together.  After breakfast, Mr. Franklin took one of his sudden resolutions, and went out precipitately to quiet his mind by a long walk.  I was the only person who saw him go; and he told me he should be back before the Sergeant returned.  The change in the weather, foreshadowed overnight, had come.  Heavy rain had been followed soon after dawn, by high wind.  It was blowing fresh, as the day got on.  But though the clouds threatened more than once, the rain still held off.  It was not a bad day for a walk, if you were young and strong, and could breast the great gusts of wind which came sweeping in from the sea.

I attended my lady after breakfast, and assisted her in the settlement of our household accounts.  She only once alluded to the matter of the Moonstone, and that was in the way of forbidding any present mention of it between us.  “Wait till that man comes back,” she said, meaning the Sergeant.  “We must speak of it then:  we are not obliged to speak of it now.”

After leaving my mistress, I found Penelope waiting for me in my room.

“I wish, father, you would come and speak to Rosanna,” she said.  “I am very uneasy about her.”

I suspected what was the matter readily enough.  But it is a maxim of mine that men (being superior creatures) are bound to improve women—­if they can.  When a woman wants me to do anything (my daughter, or not, it doesn’t matter), I always insist on knowing why.  The oftener you make them rummage their own minds for a reason, the more manageable you will find them in all the relations of life.  It isn’t their fault (poor wretches!) that they act first and think afterwards; it’s the fault of the fools who humour them.

Penelope’s reason why, on this occasion, may be given in her own words.  “I am afraid, father,” she said, “Mr. Franklin has hurt Rosanna cruelly, without intending it.”

“What took Rosanna into the shrubbery walk?” I asked.

“Her own madness,” says Penelope; “I can call it nothing else.  She was bent on speaking to Mr. Franklin, this morning, come what might of it.  I did my best to stop her; you saw that.  If I could only have got her away before she heard those dreadful words——­”