“Mr. Betteredge,” he began, “those three Indians are no more jugglers than you and I are.”

Here was a new surprise!  I naturally asked the traveller if he had ever met with the Indians before.

“Never,” says Mr. Murthwaite; “but I know what Indian juggling really is.  All you have seen to-night is a very bad and clumsy imitation of it.  Unless, after long experience, I am utterly mistaken, those men are high-caste Brahmins.  I charged them with being disguised, and you saw how it told on them, clever as the Hindoo people are in concealing their feelings.  There is a mystery about their conduct that I can’t explain.  They have doubly sacrificed their caste—­first, in crossing the sea; secondly, in disguising themselves as jugglers.  In the land they live in that is a tremendous sacrifice to make.  There must be some very serious motive at the bottom of it, and some justification of no ordinary kind to plead for them, in recovery of their caste, when they return to their own country.”

I was struck dumb.  Mr. Murthwaite went on with his cheroot.  Mr. Franklin, after what looked to me like a little private veering about between the different sides of his character, broke the silence as follows: 

“I feel some hesitation, Mr. Murthwaite, in troubling you with family matters, in which you can have no interest and which I am not very willing to speak of out of our own circle.  But, after what you have said, I feel bound, in the interests of Lady Verinder and her daughter, to tell you something which may possibly put the clue into your hands.  I speak to you in confidence; you will oblige me, I am sure, by not forgetting that?”

With this preface, he told the Indian traveller all that he had told me at the Shivering Sand.  Even the immovable Mr. Murthwaite was so interested in what he heard, that he let his cheroot go out.

“Now,” says Mr. Franklin, when he had done, “what does your experience say?”

“My experience,” answered the traveller, “says that you have had more narrow escapes of your life, Mr. Franklin Blake, than I have had of mine; and that is saying a great deal.”

It was Mr. Franklin’s turn to be astonished now.

“Is it really as serious as that?” he asked.

“In my opinion it is,” answered Mr. Murthwaite.  “I can’t doubt, after what you have told me, that the restoration of the Moonstone to its place on the forehead of the Indian idol, is the motive and the justification of that sacrifice of caste which I alluded to just now.  Those men will wait their opportunity with the patience of cats, and will use it with the ferocity of tigers.  How you have escaped them I can’t imagine,” says the eminent traveller, lighting his cheroot again, and staring hard at Mr. Franklin.  “You have been carrying the Diamond backwards and forwards, here and in London, and you are still a living man!  Let us try and account for it.  It was daylight, both times, I suppose, when you took the jewel out of the bank in London?”