I waited in vain till the clock on the front staircase struck the quarter to two.  Five minutes afterwards, I heard my name called, from the drive outside the house.  I knew the voice directly.  Sergeant Cuff had returned from Frizinghall.

CHAPTER XVIII

Going down to the front door, I met the Sergeant on the steps.

It went against the grain with me, after what had passed between us, to show him that I felt any sort of interest in his proceedings.  In spite of myself, however, I felt an interest that there was no resisting.  My sense of dignity sank from under me, and out came the words:  “What news from Frizinghall?”

“I have seen the Indians,” answered Sergeant Cuff.  “And I have found out what Rosanna bought privately in the town, on Thursday last.  The Indians will be set free on Wednesday in next week.  There isn’t a doubt on my mind, and there isn’t a doubt on Mr. Murthwaite’s mind, that they came to this place to steal the Moonstone.  Their calculations were all thrown out, of course, by what happened in the house on Wednesday night; and they have no more to do with the actual loss of the jewel than you have.  But I can tell you one thing, Mr. Betteredge—­if we don’t find the Moonstone, they will.  You have not heard the last of the three jugglers yet.”

Mr. Franklin came back from his walk as the Sergeant said those startling words.  Governing his curiosity better than I had governed mine, he passed us without a word, and went on into the house.

As for me, having already dropped my dignity, I determined to have the whole benefit of the sacrifice.  “So much for the Indians,” I said.  “What about Rosanna next?”

Sergeant Cuff shook his head.

“The mystery in that quarter is thicker than ever,” he said.  “I have traced her to a shop at Frizinghall, kept by a linen draper named Maltby.  She bought nothing whatever at any of the other drapers’ shops, or at any milliners’ or tailors’ shops; and she bought nothing at Maltby’s but a piece of long cloth.  She was very particular in choosing a certain quality.  As to quantity, she bought enough to make a nightgown.”

“Whose nightgown?” I asked.

“Her own, to be sure.  Between twelve and three, on the Thursday morning, she must have slipped down to your young lady’s room, to settle the hiding of the Moonstone while all the rest of you were in bed.  In going back to her own room, her nightgown must have brushed the wet paint on the door.  She couldn’t wash out the stain; and she couldn’t safely destroy the night-gown without first providing another like it, to make the inventory of her linen complete.”

“What proves that it was Rosanna’s nightgown?” I objected.