“Nothing of the sort,” says Mr. Franklin.  “I have inquired about that.  The flawed Diamond, cut up, would actually fetch more than the Diamond as it now is; for this plain reason—­that from four to six perfect brilliants might be cut from it, which would be, collectively, worth more money than the large—­but imperfect single stone.  If robbery for the purpose of gain was at the bottom of the conspiracy, the Colonel’s instructions absolutely made the Diamond better worth stealing.  More money could have been got for it, and the disposal of it in the diamond market would have been infinitely easier, if it had passed through the hands of the workmen of Amsterdam.”

“Lord bless us, sir!” I burst out.  “What was the plot, then?”

“A plot organised among the Indians who originally owned the jewel,” says Mr. Franklin—­“a plot with some old Hindoo superstition at the bottom of it.  That is my opinion, confirmed by a family paper which I have about me at this moment.”

I saw, now, why the appearance of the three Indian jugglers at our house had presented itself to Mr. Franklin in the light of a circumstance worth noting.

“I don’t want to force my opinion on you,” Mr. Franklin went on.  “The idea of certain chosen servants of an old Hindoo superstition devoting themselves, through all difficulties and dangers, to watching the opportunity of recovering their sacred gem, appears to me to be perfectly consistent with everything that we know of the patience of Oriental races, and the influence of Oriental religions.  But then I am an imaginative man; and the butcher, the baker, and the tax-gatherer, are not the only credible realities in existence to my mind.  Let the guess I have made at the truth in this matter go for what it is worth, and let us get on to the only practical question that concerns us.  Does the conspiracy against the Moonstone survive the Colonel’s death?  And did the Colonel know it, when he left the birthday gift to his niece?”

I began to see my lady and Miss Rachel at the end of it all, now.  Not a word he said escaped me.

“I was not very willing, when I discovered the story of the Moonstone,” said Mr. Franklin, “to be the means of bringing it here.  But Mr. Bruff reminded me that somebody must put my cousin’s legacy into my cousin’s hands—­and that I might as well do it as anybody else.  After taking the Diamond out of the bank, I fancied I was followed in the streets by a shabby, dark-complexioned man.  I went to my father’s house to pick up my luggage, and found a letter there, which unexpectedly detained me in London.  I went back to the bank with the Diamond, and thought I saw the shabby man again.  Taking the Diamond once more out of the bank this morning, I saw the man for the third time, gave him the slip, and started (before he recovered the trace of me) by the morning instead of the afternoon train.  Here I am, with the Diamond safe and sound—­and what is the first news that meets me?  I find that