Instead of taking offence, Sergeant Cuff seized my hand, and shook it till my fingers ached again.

“I declare to heaven,” says this strange officer solemnly, “I would take to domestic service to-morrow, Mr. Betteredge, if I had a chance of being employed along with You!  To say you are as transparent as a child, sir, is to pay the children a compliment which nine out of ten of them don’t deserve.  There! there! we won’t begin to dispute again.  You shall have it out of me on easier terms than that.  I won’t say a word more about her ladyship, or about Miss Verinder—­I’ll only turn prophet, for once in a way, and for your sake.  I have warned you already that you haven’t done with the Moonstone yet.  Very well.  Now I’ll tell you, at parting, of three things which will happen in the future, and which, I believe, will force themselves on your attention, whether you like it or not.”

“Go on!” I said, quite unabashed, and just as airy as ever.

“First,” said the Sergeant, “you will hear something from the Yollands—­when the postman delivers Rosanna’s letter at Cobb’s Hole, on Monday next.”

If he had thrown a bucket of cold water over me, I doubt if I could have felt it much more unpleasantly than I felt those words.  Miss Rachel’s assertion of her innocence had left Rosanna’s conduct—­the making the new nightgown, the hiding the smeared nightgown, and all the rest of it—­entirely without explanation.  And this had never occurred to me, till Sergeant Cuff forced it on my mind all in a moment!

“In the second place,” proceeded the Sergeant, “you will hear of the three Indians again.  You will hear of them in the neighbourhood, if Miss Rachel remains in the neighbourhood.  You will hear of them in London, if Miss Rachel goes to London.”

Having lost all interest in the three jugglers, and having thoroughly convinced myself of my young lady’s innocence, I took this second prophecy easily enough.  “So much for two of the three things that are going to happen,” I said.  “Now for the third!”

“Third, and last,” said Sergeant Cuff, “you will, sooner or later, hear something of that money-lender in London, whom I have twice taken the liberty of mentioning already.  Give me your pocket-book, and I’ll make a note for you of his name and address—­so that there may be no mistake about it if the thing really happens.”

He wrote accordingly on a blank leaf—­“Mr. Septimus Luker, Middlesex-place, Lambeth, London.”

“There,” he said, pointing to the address, “are the last words, on the subject of the Moonstone, which I shall trouble you with for the present.  Time will show whether I am right or wrong.  In the meanwhile, sir, I carry away with me a sincere personal liking for you, which I think does honour to both of us.  If we don’t meet again before my professional retirement takes place, I hope you will come and see me in a little house near London, which I have got my eye on.  There will be grass walks, Mr. Betteredge, I promise you, in my garden.  And as for the white moss rose——­”