I sent them in, one by one, as desired.  The cook was the first to enter the Court of Justice, otherwise my room.  She remained but a short time.  Report, on coming out:  “Sergeant Cuff is depressed in his spirits; but Sergeant Cuff is a perfect gentleman.”  My lady’s own maid followed.  Remained much longer.  Report, on coming out:  “If Sergeant Cuff doesn’t believe a respectable woman, he might keep his opinion to himself, at any rate!” Penelope went next.  Remained only a moment or two.  Report, on coming out:  “Sergeant Cuff is much to be pitied.  He must have been crossed in love, father, when he was a young man.”  The first housemaid followed Penelope.  Remained, like my lady’s maid, a long time.  Report, on coming out:  “I didn’t enter her ladyship’s service, Mr. Betteredge, to be doubted to my face by a low police-officer!” Rosanna Spearman went next.  Remained longer than any of them.  No report on coming out—­dead silence, and lips as pale as ashes.  Samuel, the footman, followed Rosanna.  Remained a minute or two.  Report, on coming out:  “Whoever blacks Sergeant Cuff’s boots ought to be ashamed of himself.”  Nancy, the kitchen-maid, went last.  Remained a minute or two.  Report, on coming out:  “Sergeant Cuff has a heart; he doesn’t cut jokes, Mr. Betteredge, with a poor hard-working girl.”

Going into the Court of Justice, when it was all over, to hear if there were any further commands for me, I found the Sergeant at his old trick—­looking out of window, and whistling “The Last Rose of Summer” to himself.

“Any discoveries, sir?” I inquired.

“If Rosanna Spearman asks leave to go out,” said the Sergeant, “let the poor thing go; but let me know first.”

I might as well have held my tongue about Rosanna and Mr. Franklin!  It was plain enough; the unfortunate girl had fallen under Sergeant Cuff’s suspicions, in spite of all I could do to prevent it.

“I hope you don’t think Rosanna is concerned in the loss of the Diamond?” I ventured to say.

The corners of the Sergeant’s melancholy mouth curled up, and he looked hard in my face, just as he had looked in the garden.

“I think I had better not tell you, Mr. Betteredge,” he said.  “You might lose your head, you know, for the second time.”

I began to doubt whether I had been one too many for the celebrated Cuff, after all!  It was rather a relief to me that we were interrupted here by a knock at the door, and a message from the cook.  Rosanna Spearman had asked to go out, for the usual reason, that her head was bad, and she wanted a breath of fresh air.  At a sign from the Sergeant, I said, Yes.  “Which is the servants’ way out?” he asked, when the messenger had gone.  I showed him the servants’ way out.  “Lock the door of your room,” says the Sergeant; “and if anybody asks for me, say I’m in there, composing my mind.”  He curled up again at the corners of the lips, and disappeared.