Half an hour before dinner-time, the two gentlemen came back from Frizinghall, having arranged with Superintendent Seegrave that he was to return to us the next day.  They had called on Mr. Murthwaite, the Indian traveller, at his present residence, near the town.  At Mr. Franklin’s request, he had kindly given them the benefit of his knowledge of the language, in dealing with those two, out of the three Indians, who knew nothing of English.  The examination, conducted carefully, and at great length, had ended in nothing; not the shadow of a reason being discovered for suspecting the jugglers of having tampered with any of our servants.  On reaching that conclusion, Mr. Franklin had sent his telegraphic message to London, and there the matter now rested till to-morrow came.

So much for the history of the day that followed the birthday.  Not a glimmer of light had broken in on us, so far.  A day or two after, however, the darkness lifted a little.  How, and with what result, you shall presently see.

CHAPTER XII

The Thursday night passed, and nothing happened.  With the Friday morning came two pieces of news.

Item the first:  the baker’s man declared he had met Rosanna Spearman, on the previous afternoon, with a thick veil on, walking towards Frizinghall by the foot-path way over the moor.  It seemed strange that anybody should be mistaken about Rosanna, whose shoulder marked her out pretty plainly, poor thing—­but mistaken the man must have been; for Rosanna, as you know, had been all the Thursday afternoon ill up-stairs in her room.

Item the second came through the postman.  Worthy Mr. Candy had said one more of his many unlucky things, when he drove off in the rain on the birthday night, and told me that a doctor’s skin was waterproof.  In spite of his skin, the wet had got through him.  He had caught a chill that night, and was now down with a fever.  The last accounts, brought by the postman, represented him to be light-headed—­talking nonsense as glibly, poor man, in his delirium as he often talked it in his sober senses.  We were all sorry for the little doctor; but Mr. Franklin appeared to regret his illness, chiefly on Miss Rachel’s account.  From what he said to my lady, while I was in the room at breakfast-time, he appeared to think that Miss Rachel—­if the suspense about the Moonstone was not soon set at rest—­might stand in urgent need of the best medical advice at our disposal.

Breakfast had not been over long, when a telegram from Mr. Blake, the elder, arrived, in answer to his son.  It informed us that he had laid hands (by help of his friend, the Commissioner) on the right man to help us.  The name of him was Sergeant Cuff; and the arrival of him from London might be expected by the morning train.

At reading the name of the new police-officer, Mr. Franklin gave a start.  It seems that he had heard some curious anecdotes about Sergeant Cuff, from his father’s lawyer, during his stay in London.