Mr. Superintendent—­taking his set-down rather sulkily—­asked if he should summon the women.  Sergeant Cuff, after considering a minute, sighed, and shook his head.

“No,” he said, “we’ll take the matter of the paint first.  It’s a question of Yes or No with the paint—­which is short.  It’s a question of petticoats with the women—­which is long.  What o’clock was it when the servants were in this room yesterday morning?  Eleven o’clock—­eh?  Is there anybody in the house who knows whether that paint was wet or dry, at eleven yesterday morning?”

“Her ladyship’s nephew, Mr. Franklin Blake, knows,” I said.

“Is the gentleman in the house?”

Mr. Franklin was as close at hand as could be—­waiting for his first chance of being introduced to the great Cuff.  In half a minute he was in the room, and was giving his evidence as follows: 

“That door, Sergeant,” he said, “has been painted by Miss Verinder, under my inspection, with my help, and in a vehicle of my own composition.  The vehicle dries whatever colours may be used with it, in twelve hours.”

“Do you remember when the smeared bit was done, sir?” asked the Sergeant.

“Perfectly,” answered Mr. Franklin.  “That was the last morsel of the door to be finished.  We wanted to get it done, on Wednesday last—­and I myself completed it by three in the afternoon, or soon after.”

“To-day is Friday,” said Sergeant Cuff, addressing himself to Superintendent Seegrave.  “Let us reckon back, sir.  At three on the Wednesday afternoon, that bit of the painting was completed.  The vehicle dried it in twelve hours—­that is to say, dried it by three o’clock on Thursday morning.  At eleven on Thursday morning you held your inquiry here.  Take three from eleven, and eight remains.  That paint had been eight hours dry, Mr. Superintendent, when you supposed that the women-servants’ petticoats smeared it.”

First knock-down blow for Mr. Seegrave!  If he had not suspected poor Penelope, I should have pitied him.

Having settled the question of the paint, Sergeant Cuff, from that moment, gave his brother-officer up as a bad job—­and addressed himself to Mr. Franklin, as the more promising assistant of the two.

“It’s quite on the cards, sir,” he said, “that you have put the clue into our hands.”

As the words passed his lips, the bedroom door opened, and Miss Rachel came out among us suddenly.

She addressed herself to the Sergeant, without appearing to notice (or to heed) that he was a perfect stranger to her.

“Did you say,” she asked, pointing to Mr. Franklin, “that he had put the clue into your hands?”

("This is Miss Verinder,” I whispered, behind the Sergeant.)

“That gentleman, miss,” says the Sergeant—­with his steely-grey eyes carefully studying my young lady’s face—­“has possibly put the clue into our hands.”