Mr. Franklin composed himself, and came back with an effort from Miss Rachel to the matter in hand.

“I think I do understand,” he said.  “The more we narrow the question of time, the more we also narrow the field of inquiry.”

“That’s it, sir,” said the Sergeant.  “Did you notice your work here, on the Wednesday afternoon, after you had done it?”

Mr. Franklin shook his head, and answered, “I can’t say I did.”

“Did you?” inquired Sergeant Cuff, turning to me.

“I can’t say I did either, sir.”

“Who was the last person in the room, the last thing on Wednesday night?”

“Miss Rachel, I suppose, sir.”

Mr. Franklin struck in there, “Or possibly your daughter, Betteredge.”  He turned to Sergeant Cuff, and explained that my daughter was Miss Verinder’s maid.

“Mr. Betteredge, ask your daughter to step up.  Stop!” says the Sergeant, taking me away to the window, out of earshot, “Your Superintendent here,” he went on, in a whisper, “has made a pretty full report to me of the manner in which he has managed this case.  Among other things, he has, by his own confession, set the servants’ backs up.  It’s very important to smooth them down again.  Tell your daughter, and tell the rest of them, these two things, with my compliments:  First, that I have no evidence before me, yet, that the Diamond has been stolen; I only know that the Diamond has been lost.  Second, that my business here with the servants is simply to ask them to lay their heads together and help me to find it.”

My experience of the women-servants, when Superintendent Seegrave laid his embargo on their rooms, came in handy here.

“May I make so bold, Sergeant, as to tell the women a third thing?” I asked.  “Are they free (with your compliments) to fidget up and downstairs, and whisk in and out of their bed-rooms, if the fit takes them?”

“Perfectly free,” said the Sergeant.

“That will smooth them down, sir,” I remarked, “from the cook to the scullion.”

“Go, and do it at once, Mr. Betteredge.”

I did it in less than five minutes.  There was only one difficulty when I came to the bit about the bed-rooms.  It took a pretty stiff exertion of my authority, as chief, to prevent the whole of the female household from following me and Penelope up-stairs, in the character of volunteer witnesses in a burning fever of anxiety to help Sergeant Cuff.

The Sergeant seemed to approve of Penelope.  He became a trifle less dreary; and he looked much as he had looked when he noticed the white musk rose in the flower-garden.  Here is my daughter’s evidence, as drawn off from her by the Sergeant.  She gave it, I think, very prettily—­but, there! she is my child all over:  nothing of her mother in her; Lord bless you, nothing of her mother in her!