My lady led the way back.  Before he followed her, the Sergeant relieved his mind on the subject of the gravel walks by a parting word to the gardener.  “Get her ladyship to try grass,” he said, with a sour look at the paths.  “No gravel! no gravel!”

Why Superintendent Seegrave should have appeared to be several sizes smaller than life, on being presented to Sergeant Cuff, I can’t undertake to explain.  I can only state the fact.  They retired together; and remained a weary long time shut up from all mortal intrusion.  When they came out, Mr. Superintendent was excited, and Mr. Sergeant was yawning.

“The Sergeant wishes to see Miss Verinder’s sitting-room,” says Mr. Seegrave, addressing me with great pomp and eagerness.  “The Sergeant may have some questions to ask.  Attend the Sergeant, if you please!”

While I was being ordered about in this way, I looked at the great Cuff.  The great Cuff, on his side, looked at Superintendent Seegrave in that quietly expecting way which I have already noticed.  I can’t affirm that he was on the watch for his brother officer’s speedy appearance in the character of an Ass—­I can only say that I strongly suspected it.

I led the way up-stairs.  The Sergeant went softly all over the Indian cabinet and all round the “boudoir;” asking questions (occasionally only of Mr. Superintendent, and continually of me), the drift of which I believe to have been equally unintelligible to both of us.  In due time, his course brought him to the door, and put him face to face with the decorative painting that you know of.  He laid one lean inquiring finger on the small smear, just under the lock, which Superintendent Seegrave had already noticed, when he reproved the women-servants for all crowding together into the room.

“That’s a pity,” says Sergeant Cuff.  “How did it happen?”

He put the question to me.  I answered that the women-servants had crowded into the room on the previous morning, and that some of their petticoats had done the mischief, “Superintendent Seegrave ordered them out, sir,” I added, “before they did any more harm.”

“Right!” says Mr. Superintendent in his military way.  “I ordered them out.  The petticoats did it, Sergeant—­the petticoats did it.”

“Did you notice which petticoat did it?” asked Sergeant Cuff, still addressing himself, not to his brother-officer, but to me.

“No, sir.”

He turned to Superintendent Seegrave upon that, and said, “You noticed, I suppose?”

Mr. Superintendent looked a little taken aback; but he made the best of it.  “I can’t charge my memory, Sergeant,” he said, “a mere trifle—­a mere trifle.”

Sergeant Cuff looked at Mr. Seegrave, as he had looked at the gravel walks in the rosery, and gave us, in his melancholy way, the first taste of his quality which we had had yet.

“I made a private inquiry last week, Mr. Superintendent,” he said.  “At one end of the inquiry there was a murder, and at the other end there was a spot of ink on a table cloth that nobody could account for.  In all my experience along the dirtiest ways of this dirty little world, I have never met with such a thing as a trifle yet.  Before we go a step further in this business we must see the petticoat that made the smear, and we must know for certain when that paint was wet.”