My servant handed me a morsel of paper when he let me in.

I read, in a neat legal handwriting, these words—­“If you please, sir, I am getting sleepy.  I will come back to-morrow morning, between nine and ten.”  Inquiry proved that a boy, with very extraordinary-looking eyes, had called, and presented my card and message, had waited an hour, had done nothing but fall asleep and wake up again, had written a line for me, and had gone home—­after gravely informing the servant that “he was fit for nothing unless he got his night’s rest.”

At nine, the next morning, I was ready for my visitor.  At half past nine, I heard steps outside my door.  “Come in, Gooseberry!” I called out.  “Thank you, sir,” answered a grave and melancholy voice.  The door opened.  I started to my feet, and confronted—­Sergeant Cuff.

“I thought I would look in here, Mr. Blake, on the chance of your being in town, before I wrote to Yorkshire,” said the Sergeant.

He was as dreary and as lean as ever.  His eyes had not lost their old trick (so subtly noticed in Betteredge’s narrative) of “looking as if they expected something more from you than you were aware of yourself.”  But, so far as dress can alter a man, the great Cuff was changed beyond all recognition.  He wore a broad-brimmed white hat, a light shooting jacket, white trousers, and drab gaiters.  He carried a stout oak stick.  His whole aim and object seemed to be to look as if he had lived in the country all his life.  When I complimented him on his Metamorphosis, he declined to take it as a joke.  He complained, quite gravely, of the noises and the smells of London.  I declare I am far from sure that he did not speak with a slightly rustic accent!  I offered him breakfast.  The innocent countryman was quite shocked.  His breakfast hour was half-past six—­and he went to bed with the cocks and hens!

“I only got back from Ireland last night,” said the Sergeant, coming round to the practical object of his visit, in his own impenetrable manner.  “Before I went to bed, I read your letter, telling me what has happened since my inquiry after the Diamond was suspended last year.  There’s only one thing to be said about the matter on my side.  I completely mistook my case.  How any man living was to have seen things in their true light, in such a situation as mine was at the time, I don’t profess to know.  But that doesn’t alter the facts as they stand.  I own that I made a mess of it.  Not the first mess, Mr. Blake, which has distinguished my professional career!  It’s only in books that the officers of the detective force are superior to the weakness of making a mistake.”

“You have come in the nick of time to recover your reputation,” I said.

“I beg your pardon, Mr. Blake,” rejoined the Sergeant.  “Now I have retired from business, I don’t care a straw about my reputation.  I have done with my reputation, thank God!  I am here, sir, in grateful remembrance of the late Lady Verinder’s liberality to me.  I will go back to my old work—­if you want me, and if you will trust me—­on that consideration, and on no other.  Not a farthing of money is to pass, if you please, from you to me.  This is on honour.  Now tell me, Mr. Blake, how the case stands since you wrote to me last.”