charge my memory, Sergeant," he said, " a
mere trifle—a mere trifle."

Sergeant Cuff looked at Mr. Seegrave as he
had looked at the gravel walks in the rosery,
and gave us, in his melancholy way, the first
taste of his quality which we had had yet.

"I made a private inquiry last week, Mr.
Superintendent," he said. " At one end of the
inquiry there was a murder, and at the other
end there was a spot of ink on a tablecloth
that nobody could account for. In all my
experience along the dirtiest ways of this dirty
little world, I have never met with such a thing
as a trifle yet. Before we go a step further in
this business we must see the petticoat that
made the smear, and we must know for certain
when that paint was wet."

Mr. Superintendent—taking his set-down
rather sulkily—asked if he should summon the
women. Sergeant Cuff, after considering a
minute, sighed, and shook his head.

"No," he said, " we'll take the matter of
the paint first. It's a question of Yes or No
with the paint—which is short. It's a question
of petticoats with the woman—which is long.
What o'clock was it when the servants were in
this room yesterday morning? Eleven o'clock
—eh? Is there anybody in the house who
knows whether that paint was wet or dry, at
eleven yesterday morning?"

"Her ladyship's nephew, Mr. Franklin Blake,
knows," I said.

"Is the gentleman in the house?"

Mr. Franklin was as close at hand as could
be—waiting for his first chance of being
introduced to the great Cuff. In half a minute he
was in the room, and was giving his evidence
as follows:

"That door, Sergeant," he said, " has been
painted by Miss Verinder, under my inspection,
with my help, and in a vehicle of my own
composition. The vehicle dries whatever colours
may be used with it, in twelve hours."

"Do you remember when the smeared bit
was done, sir?" asked the Sergeant.

"Perfectly," answered Mr. Franklin. " That
was the last morsel of the door to be finished.
We wanted to get it done, on Wednesday last—
and I myself completed it by three in the afternoon,
or soon after."

"Today is Friday," said Sergeant Cuff,
addressing himself to Superintendent Seegrave.
"Let us reckon back, sir. At three on the
Wednesday afternoon, that bit of the painting
was completed. The vehicle dried it in twelve
hours—that is to say, dried it by three o'clock
on Thursday morning. At eleven on Thursday
morning you held your inquiry here. Take
three from eleven, and eight remains. That paint
had been eight hours dry, Mr. Superintendent,
when you supposed that the women-servants'
petticoats smeared it."

First knock-down blow for Mr. Seegrave!
If he had not suspected poor Penelope, I should
have pitied him.

Having settled the question of the paint,
Sergeant Cuff, from that moment, gave his
brother-oificer up as a bad job—and addressed
himself to Mr. Franklin, as the more promising
assistant of the two.

"It's quite on the cards, sir," he said, " that
you have put the clue into our hands."

As the words passed his lips, the bedroom
door opened, and Miss Rachel came out among
us suddenly.

She addressed herself to the Sergeant, with-
out appearing to notice (or to heed) that he was
a perfect stranger to her.

"Did you say," she asked, pointing to Mr.
Franklin, " that he had put the clue into your
hands?"

(" This is Miss Verinder," I whispered,
behind the Sergeant.)

"That gentleman, miss," says the Sergeant
—with his steely-grey eyes carefully studying
my young lady's face—"has possibly put the
clue into our hands."

She turned for one moment, and tried to
look at Mr. Franklin. I say, tried, for she
suddenly looked away again before their eyes
met. There seemed to be some strange
disturbance in her mind. She coloured up, and
then she turned pale again. With the paleness,
there came a new look into her face, a look
which it startled me to see.

"Having answered your question, miss,"
says the Sergeant, " I beg leave to make an
inquiry in my turn. There is a smear on the
painting of your door, here. Do you happen
to know when it was done? or who did it?"

Instead of making any reply, Miss Rachel
went on with her questions, as if he had not
spoken, or as if she had not heard him.

"Are you another police-officer?" she asked.

"I am Sergeant Cuff, miss, of the Detective
Police."

"Do you think a young lady's advice worth
having?"

"I shall be glad to hear it, miss."

"Do your duty by yourself—and don't allow
Mr. Franklin Blake to help you!"

She said those words so spitefully, so
savagely, with such an extraordinary outbreak
of ill-will towards Mr. Franklin, in her voice
and her look, that—though I had known her
from a baby, though I loved and honoured her
next to my lady herself—I was ashamed of Miss
Rachel for the first time in my life.

Sergeant Cuff's immovable eyes never stirred
from off her face. " Thank you, miss," he said.
"Do you happen to know anything about the
smear? Might you have done it by accident
yourself?"

"I know nothing about the smear."

With that answer, she turned away, and shut
herself up again in her bedroom. I'liis time, I
heard her—as Penelope had heard her before—
burst out crying as soon as she was alone again.

I couldn't bring myself to look at the Sergeant
—I looked at Mr. Franklin, who stood nearest
to me. He seemed to be even more sorely
distressed at what had passed than I was.

"I told you I was uneasy about her," he said.
"And now you see why."