“The best way, sir,” I said, “will be for me to say two words privately to my mistress about it at the first opportunity.  My lady has a very friendly interest in Rosanna; and the girl may only have been forward and foolish, after all.  When there’s a mess of any kind in a house, sir, the women-servants like to look at the gloomy side—­it gives the poor wretches a kind of importance in their own eyes.  If there’s anybody ill, trust the women for prophesying that the person will die.  If it’s a jewel lost, trust them for prophesying that it will never be found again.”

This view (which I am bound to say, I thought a probable view myself, on reflection) seemed to relieve Mr. Franklin mightily:  he folded up his telegram, and dismissed the subject.  On my way to the stables, to order the pony-chaise, I looked in at the servants’ hall, where they were at dinner.  Rosanna Spearman was not among them.  On inquiry, I found that she had been suddenly taken ill, and had gone up-stairs to her own room to lie down.

“Curious!  She looked well enough when I saw her last,” I remarked.

Penelope followed me out.  “Don’t talk in that way before the rest of them, father,” she said.  “You only make them harder on Rosanna than ever.  The poor thing is breaking her heart about Mr. Franklin Blake.”

Here was another view of the girl’s conduct.  If it was possible for Penelope to be right, the explanation of Rosanna’s strange language and behaviour might have been all in this—­that she didn’t care what she said, so long as she could surprise Mr. Franklin into speaking to her.  Granting that to be the right reading of the riddle, it accounted, perhaps, for her flighty, self-conceited manner when she passed me in the hall.  Though he had only said three words, still she had carried her point, and Mr. Franklin had spoken to her.

I saw the pony harnessed myself.  In the infernal network of mysteries and uncertainties that now surrounded us, I declare it was a relief to observe how well the buckles and straps understood each other!  When you had seen the pony backed into the shafts of the chaise, you had seen something there was no doubt about.  And that, let me tell you, was becoming a treat of the rarest kind in our household.

Going round with the chaise to the front door, I found not only Mr. Franklin, but Mr. Godfrey and Superintendent Seegrave also waiting for me on the steps.

Mr. Superintendent’s reflections (after failing to find the Diamond in the servants’ rooms or boxes) had led him, it appeared, to an entirely new conclusion.  Still sticking to his first text, namely, that somebody in the house had stolen the jewel, our experienced officer was now of opinion that the thief (he was wise enough not to name poor Penelope, whatever he might privately think of her!) had been acting in concert with the Indians; and he accordingly proposed shifting his inquiries to the jugglers in the prison at Frizinghall.  Hearing