There was no getting a word more out of him on the matter of the Moonstone.  He had lost all interest in his own inquiry; and he would persist in looking for the gardener.  An hour afterwards, I heard them at high words in the conservatory, with the dog-rose once more at the bottom of the dispute.

In the meantime, it was my business to find out whether Mr. Franklin persisted in his resolution to leave us by the afternoon train.  After having been informed of the conference in my lady’s room, and of how it had ended, he immediately decided on waiting to hear the news from Frizinghall.  This very natural alteration in his plans—­which, with ordinary people, would have led to nothing in particular—­proved, in Mr. Franklin’s case, to have one objectionable result.  It left him unsettled, with a legacy of idle time on his hands, and, in so doing, it let out all the foreign sides of his character, one on the top of another, like rats out of a bag.

Now as an Italian-Englishman, now as a German-Englishman, and now as a French-Englishman, he drifted in and out of all the sitting-rooms in the house, with nothing to talk of but Miss Rachel’s treatment of him; and with nobody to address himself to but me.  I found him (for example) in the library, sitting under the map of Modern Italy, and quite unaware of any other method of meeting his troubles, except the method of talking about them.  “I have several worthy aspirations, Betteredge; but what am I to do with them now?  I am full of dormant good qualities, if Rachel would only have helped me to bring them out!” He was so eloquent in drawing the picture of his own neglected merits, and so pathetic in lamenting over it when it was done, that I felt quite at my wits’ end how to console him, when it suddenly occurred to me that here was a case for the wholesome application of a bit of Robinson Crusoe.  I hobbled out to my own room, and hobbled back with that immortal book.  Nobody in the library!  The map of Modern Italy stared at me; and I stared at the map of Modern Italy.

I tried the drawing-room.  There was his handkerchief on the floor, to prove that he had drifted in.  And there was the empty room to prove that he had drifted out again.

I tried the dining-room, and discovered Samuel with a biscuit and a glass of sherry, silently investigating the empty air.  A minute since, Mr. Franklin had rung furiously for a little light refreshment.  On its production, in a violent hurry, by Samuel, Mr. Franklin had vanished before the bell downstairs had quite done ringing with the pull he had given to it.

I tried the morning-room, and found him at last.  There he was at the window, drawing hieroglyphics with his finger in the damp on the glass.