“Do you mean that my lady won’t prosecute?” I asked.

“I mean that your lady can’t prosecute,” said the Sergeant.  “Rosanna Spearman is simply an instrument in the hands of another person, and Rosanna Spearman will be held harmless for that other person’s sake.”

He spoke like a man in earnest—­there was no denying that.  Still, I felt something stirring uneasily against him in my mind.  “Can’t you give that other person a name?” I said.

“Can’t you, Mr. Betteredge?”

“No.”

Sergeant Cuff stood stock still, and surveyed me with a look of melancholy interest.

“It’s always a pleasure to me to be tender towards human infirmity,” he said.  “I feel particularly tender at the present moment, Mr. Betteredge, towards you.  And you, with the same excellent motive, feel particularly tender towards Rosanna Spearman, don’t you?  Do you happen to know whether she has had a new outfit of linen lately?”

What he meant by slipping in this extraordinary question unawares, I was at a total loss to imagine.  Seeing no possible injury to Rosanna if I owned the truth, I answered that the girl had come to us rather sparely provided with linen, and that my lady, in recompense for her good conduct (I laid a stress on her good conduct), had given her a new outfit not a fortnight since.

“This is a miserable world,” says the Sergeant.  “Human life, Mr. Betteredge, is a sort of target—­misfortune is always firing at it, and always hitting the mark.  But for that outfit, we should have discovered a new nightgown or petticoat among Rosanna’s things, and have nailed her in that way.  You’re not at a loss to follow me, are you?  You have examined the servants yourself, and you know what discoveries two of them made outside Rosanna’s door.  Surely you know what the girl was about yesterday, after she was taken ill?  You can’t guess?  Oh dear me, it’s as plain as that strip of light there, at the end of the trees.  At eleven, on Thursday morning, Superintendent Seegrave (who is a mass of human infirmity) points out to all the women servants the smear on the door.  Rosanna has her own reasons for suspecting her own things; she takes the first opportunity of getting to her room, finds the paint-stain on her night-gown, or petticoat, or what not, shams ill and slips away to the town, gets the materials for making a new petticoat or nightgown, makes it alone in her room on the Thursday night lights a fire (not to destroy it; two of her fellow-servants are prying outside her door, and she knows better than to make a smell of burning, and to have a lot of tinder to get rid of)—­lights a fire, I say, to dry and iron the substitute dress after wringing it out, keeps the stained dress hidden (probably on her), and is at this moment occupied in making away with it, in some convenient place, on that lonely bit of beach ahead of us.  I have traced her this evening to your fishing village, and to one particular