It was certainly strange.  Taking toys and trinkets in general, Miss Rachel was nothing like so mad after them as most young girls.  Yet there she was, still locked up inconsolably in her bedroom.  It is but fair to add that she was not the only one of us in the house who was thrown out of the regular groove.  Mr. Godfrey, for instance—­though professionally a sort of consoler-general—­seemed to be at a loss where to look for his own resources.  Having no company to amuse him, and getting no chance of trying what his experience of women in distress could do towards comforting Miss Rachel, he wandered hither and thither about the house and gardens in an aimless uneasy way.  He was in two different minds about what it became him to do, after the misfortune that had happened to us.  Ought he to relieve the family, in their present situation, of the responsibility of him as a guest, or ought he to stay on the chance that even his humble services might be of some use?  He decided ultimately that the last course was perhaps the most customary and considerate course to take, in such a very peculiar case of family distress as this was.  Circumstances try the metal a man is really made of.  Mr. Godfrey, tried by circumstances, showed himself of weaker metal than I had thought him to be.  As for the women-servants excepting Rosanna Spearman, who kept by herself—­they took to whispering together in corners, and staring at nothing suspiciously, as is the manner of that weaker half of the human family, when anything extraordinary happens in a house.  I myself acknowledge to have been fidgety and ill-tempered.  The cursed Moonstone had turned us all upside down.

A little before eleven Mr. Franklin came back.  The resolute side of him had, to all appearance, given way, in the interval since his departure, under the stress that had been laid on it.  He had left us at a gallop; he came back to us at a walk.  When he went away, he was made of iron.  When he returned, he was stuffed with cotton, as limp as limp could be.

“Well,” says my lady, “are the police coming?”

“Yes,” says Mr. Franklin; “they said they would follow me in a fly.  Superintendent Seegrave, of your local police force, and two of his men.  A mere form!  The case is hopeless.”

“What! have the Indians escaped, sir?” I asked.

“The poor ill-used Indians have been most unjustly put in prison,” says Mr. Franklin.  “They are as innocent as the babe unborn.  My idea that one of them was hidden in the house has ended, like all the rest of my ideas, in smoke.  It’s been proved,” says Mr. Franklin, dwelling with great relish on his own incapacity, “to be simply impossible.”

After astonishing us by announcing this totally new turn in the matter of the Moonstone, our young gentleman, at his aunt’s request, took a seat, and explained himself.