from a man placed in my horrible position?  I can only answer that the sight of old Betteredge’s familiar face was an inexpressible comfort to me, and that the drinking of old Betteredge’s grog helped me, as I believe nothing else would have helped me, in the state of complete bodily and mental prostration into which I had fallen.  I can only offer this excuse for myself; and I can only admire that invariable preservation of dignity, and that strictly logical consistency of conduct which distinguish every man and woman who may read these lines, in every emergency of their lives from the cradle to the grave.

“Now, Mr. Franklin, there’s one thing certain, at any rate,” said Betteredge, throwing the nightgown down on the table between us, and pointing to it as if it was a living creature that could hear him.  “He’s a liar, to begin with.”

This comforting view of the matter was not the view that presented itself to my mind.

“I am as innocent of all knowledge of having taken the Diamond as you are,” I said.  “But there is the witness against me!  The paint on the nightgown, and the name on the nightgown are facts.”

Betteredge lifted my glass, and put it persuasively into my hand.

“Facts?” he repeated.  “Take a drop more grog, Mr. Franklin, and you’ll get over the weakness of believing in facts!  Foul play, sir!” he continued, dropping his voice confidentially.  “That is how I read the riddle.  Foul play somewhere—­and you and I must find it out.  Was there nothing else in the tin case, when you put your hand into it?”

The question instantly reminded me of the letter in my pocket.  I took it out, and opened it.  It was a letter of many pages, closely written.  I looked impatiently for the signature at the end.  “Rosanna Spearman.”

As I read the name, a sudden remembrance illuminated my mind, and a sudden suspicion rose out of the new light.

“Stop!” I exclaimed.  “Rosanna Spearman came to my aunt out of a reformatory?  Rosanna Spearman had once been a thief?”

“There’s no denying that, Mr. Franklin.  What of it now, if you please?”

“What of it now?  How do we know she may not have stolen the Diamond after all?  How do we know she may not have smeared my nightgown purposely with the paint?”

Betteredge laid his hand on my arm, and stopped me before I could say any more.

“You will be cleared of this, Mr. Franklin, beyond all doubt.  But I hope you won’t be cleared in that way.  See what the letter says, sir.  In justice to the girl’s memory, see what it says.”

I felt the earnestness with which he spoke—­felt it as a friendly rebuke to me.  “You shall form your own judgment on her letter,” I said.  “I will read it out.”

I began—­and read these lines: 

“Sir—­I have something to own to you.  A confession which means much misery, may sometimes be made in very few words.  This confession can be made in three words.  I love you.”