“Yes.”

“When you see a poor girl in service, do you feel no remorse?”

“Certainly not.  Why should I?”

She abruptly thrust the letter (as the phrase is) into my face.

“Take it!” she exclaimed furiously.  “I never set eyes on you before.  God Almighty forbid I should ever set eyes on you again.”

With those parting words she limped away from me at the top of her speed.  The one interpretation that I could put on her conduct has, no doubt, been anticipated by everybody.  I could only suppose that she was mad.

Having reached that inevitable conclusion, I turned to the more interesting object of investigation which was presented to me by Rosanna Spearman’s letter.  The address was written as follows:—­“For Franklin Blake, Esq.  To be given into his own hands (and not to be trusted to any one else), by Lucy Yolland.”

I broke the seal.  The envelope contained a letter:  and this, in its turn, contained a slip of paper.  I read the letter first:—­

“Sir,—­If you are curious to know the meaning of my behaviour to you, whilst you were staying in the house of my mistress, Lady Verinder, do what you are told to do in the memorandum enclosed with this—­and do it without any person being present to overlook you.  Your humble servant,

“Rosanna Spearman.”

I turned to the slip of paper next.  Here is the literal copy of it, word for word: 

“Memorandum:—­To go to the Shivering Sand at the turn of the tide.  To walk out on the South Spit, until I get the South Spit Beacon, and the flagstaff at the Coast-guard station above Cobb’s Hole in a line together.  To lay down on the rocks, a stick, or any straight thing to guide my hand, exactly in the line of the beacon and the flagstaff.  To take care, in doing this, that one end of the stick shall be at the edge of the rocks, on the side of them which overlooks the quicksand.  To feel along the stick, among the sea-weed (beginning from the end of the stick which points towards the beacon), for the Chain.  To run my hand along the Chain, when found, until I come to the part of it which stretches over the edge of the rocks, down into the quicksand.  And then to pull the chain.”

Just as I had read the last words—­underlined in the original—­I heard the voice of Betteredge behind me.  The inventor of the detective-fever had completely succumbed to that irresistible malady.  “I can’t stand it any longer, Mr. Franklin.  What does her letter say?  For mercy’s sake, sir, tell us, what does her letter say?”

I handed him the letter, and the memorandum.  He read the first without appearing to be much interested in it.  But the second—­the memorandum—­produced a strong impression on him.