“You will wonder, I dare say” (her ladyship wrote), “at my allowing my own daughter to keep me perfectly in the dark.  A Diamond worth twenty thousand pounds has been lost—­and I am left to infer that the mystery of its disappearance is no mystery to Rachel, and that some incomprehensible obligation of silence has been laid on her, by some person or persons utterly unknown to me, with some object in view at which I cannot even guess.  Is it conceivable that I should allow myself to be trifled with in this way?  It is quite conceivable, in Rachel’s present state.  She is in a condition of nervous agitation pitiable to see.  I dare not approach the subject of the Moonstone again until time has done something to quiet her.  To help this end, I have not hesitated to dismiss the police-officer.  The mystery which baffles us, baffles him too.  This is not a matter in which any stranger can help us.  He adds to what I have to suffer; and he maddens Rachel if she only hears his name.

“My plans for the future are as well settled as they can be.  My present idea is to take Rachel to London—­partly to relieve her mind by a complete change, partly to try what may be done by consulting the best medical advice.  Can I ask you to meet us in town?  My dear Franklin, you, in your way, must imitate my patience, and wait, as I do, for a fitter time.  The valuable assistance which you rendered to the inquiry after the lost jewel is still an unpardoned offence, in the present dreadful state of Rachel’s mind.  Moving blindfold in this matter, you have added to the burden of anxiety which she has had to bear, by innocently threatening her secret with discovery, through your exertions.  It is impossible for me to excuse the perversity that holds you responsible for consequences which neither you nor I could imagine or foresee.  She is not to be reasoned with—­she can only be pitied.  I am grieved to have to say it, but for the present, you and Rachel are better apart.  The only advice I can offer you is, to give her time.”

I handed the letter back, sincerely sorry for Mr. Franklin, for I knew how fond he was of my young lady; and I saw that her mother’s account of her had cut him to the heart.  “You know the proverb, sir,” was all I said to him.  “When things are at the worst, they’re sure to mend.  Things can’t be much worse, Mr. Franklin, than they are now.”

Mr. Franklin folded up his aunt’s letter, without appearing to be much comforted by the remark which I had ventured on addressing to him.

“When I came here from London with that horrible Diamond,” he said, “I don’t believe there was a happier household in England than this.  Look at the household now!  Scattered, disunited—­the very air of the place poisoned with mystery and suspicion!  Do you remember that morning at the Shivering Sand, when we talked about my uncle Herncastle, and his birthday gift?  The Moonstone has served the Colonel’s vengeance, Betteredge, by means which the Colonel himself never dreamt of!”