man waited to know whether there were any further orders. Mr. Bruff
dismissed him for the night.

"Do you think Mr. Luker has taken the Moonstone home with him?" I asked.

"Not he," said Mr. Bruff. "He would never have dismissed his two
policemen, if he had run the risk of keeping the Diamond in his own
house again."

We waited another half-hour for the boy, and waited in vain. It was then
time for Mr. Bruff to go to Hampstead, and for me to return to Rachel in
Portland Place. I left my card, in charge of the porter at the chambers,
with a line written on it to say that I should be at my lodgings at half
past ten, that night. The card was to be given to the boy, if the boy
came back.

Some men have a knack of keeping appointments; and other men have a
knack of missing them. I am one of the other men. Add to this, that I
passed the evening at Portland Place, on the same seat with Rachel, in a
room forty feet long, with Mrs. Merridew at the further end of it. Does
anybody wonder that I got home at half past twelve instead of half past
ten? How thoroughly heartless that person must be! And how earnestly I
hope I may never make that person's acquaintance!

My servant handed me a morsel of paper when he let me in.

I read, in a neat legal handwriting, these words--"If you please, sir, I
am getting sleepy. I will come back to-morrow morning, between nine and
ten." Inquiry proved that a boy, with very extraordinary-looking eyes,
had called, and presented my card and message, had waited an hour, had
done nothing but fall asleep and wake up again, had written a line for
me, and had gone home--after gravely informing the servant that "he was
fit for nothing unless he got his night's rest."

At nine, the next morning, I was ready for my visitor. At half past
nine, I heard steps outside my door. "Come in, Gooseberry!" I called
out. "Thank you, sir," answered a grave and melancholy voice. The door
opened. I started to my feet, and confronted--Sergeant Cuff.

"I thought I would look in here, Mr. Blake, on the chance of your being
in town, before I wrote to Yorkshire," said the Sergeant.

He was as dreary and as lean as ever. His eyes had not lost their old
trick (so subtly noticed in Betteredge's NARRATIVE) of "looking as if
they expected something more from you than you were aware of yourself."
But, so far as dress can alter a man, the great Cuff was changed beyond
all recognition. He wore a broad-brimmed white hat, a ligh