“What do you want with Mr. Franklin Blake?” I asked.

“I want to see him.”

“For anything particular?”

“I have got a letter to give him.”

“From Rosanna Spearman?”

“Yes.”

“Sent to you in your own letter?”

“Yes.”

Was the darkness going to lift?  Were all the discoveries that I was dying to make, coming and offering themselves to me of their own accord?  I was obliged to wait a moment.  Sergeant Cuff had left his infection behind him.  Certain signs and tokens, personal to myself, warned me that the detective-fever was beginning to set in again.

“You can’t see Mr. Franklin,” I said.

“I must, and will, see him.”

“He went to London last night.”

Limping Lucy looked me hard in the face, and saw that I was speaking the truth.  Without a word more, she turned about again instantly towards Cobb’s Hole.

“Stop!” I said.  “I expect news of Mr. Franklin Blake to-morrow.  Give me your letter, and I’ll send it on to him by the post.”

Limping Lucy steadied herself on her crutch and looked back at me over her shoulder.

“I am to give it from my hands into his hands,” she said.  “And I am to give it to him in no other way.”

“Shall I write, and tell him what you have said?”

“Tell him I hate him.  And you will tell him the truth.”

“Yes, yes.  But about the letter?”

“If he wants the letter, he must come back here, and get it from Me.”

With those words she limped off on the way to Cobb’s Hole.  The detective-fever burnt up all my dignity on the spot.  I followed her, and tried to make her talk.  All in vain.  It was my misfortune to be a man—­and Limping Lucy enjoyed disappointing me.  Later in the day, I tried my luck with her mother.  Good Mrs. Yolland could only cry, and recommend a drop of comfort out of the Dutch bottle.  I found the fisherman on the beach.  He said it was “a bad job,” and went on mending his net.  Neither father nor mother knew more than I knew.  The one way left to try was the chance, which might come with the morning, of writing to Mr. Franklin Blake.

I leave you to imagine how I watched for the postman on Tuesday morning.  He brought me two letters.  One, from Penelope (which I had hardly patience enough to read), announced that my lady and Miss Rachel were safely established in London.  The other, from Mr. Jeffco, informed me that his master’s son had left England already.

On reaching the metropolis, Mr. Franklin had, it appeared, gone straight to his father’s residence.  He arrived at an awkward time.  Mr. Blake, the elder, was up to his eyes in the business of the House of Commons, and was amusing himself at home that night with the favourite parliamentary plaything which they call “a private bill.”  Mr. Jeffco himself showed Mr. Franklin into his father’s study.  “My dear Franklin! why do you surprise me in this way?  Anything wrong?” “Yes; something wrong with Rachel; I am dreadfully distressed about it.”  “Grieved to hear it.  But I can’t listen to you now.”  “When can you listen?” “My dear boy!  I won’t deceive you.  I can listen at the end of the session, not a moment before.  Good-night.”  “Thank you, sir.  Good-night.”