Franklin Blake. No, no, Miss Clack! After
what has passed here to-day, between us two,
the dead-lock, in this case, is complete.
Rachel's own innocence is (as her mother knows,
and as I know) beyond a doubt. Mr. Ablewhite's
innocence is equally certain—or Rachel would
never have testified to it. And Franklin Blake's
innocence, as you have just seen, unanswerably
asserts itself. On the one hand, we are
morally certain of all these things. And, on
the other hand, we are equally sure that somebody
has brought the Moonstone to London,
and that Mr. Luker, or his banker, is in
private possession of it at this moment. What
is the use of my experience, what is the use
of any person's experience, in such a case as
that? It baffles me; it baffles you; it baffles
everybody."

No—not everybody. It had not baffled
Sergeant Cuff. I was about to mention this,
with all possible mildness, and with every
necessary protest against being supposed to
cast a slur upon Rachel—when the servant
came in to say that the doctor had gone, and
that my aunt was waiting to receive us.

This stopped the discussion. Mr. Bruff
collected his papers, looking a little exhausted by
the demands which our conversation had made
on him. I took up my bag-full of precious
publications, feeling as if I could have gone on
talking for hours. We proceeded in silence to
Lady Verinder's room.

Permit me to add here, before my narrative
advances to other events, that I have not
described what passed between the lawyer and
me, without having a definite object in view.
I am ordered to include in my contribution to
the shocking story of the Moonstone a plain
disclosure, not only of the turn which suspicion
took, but even of the names of the persons on
whom suspicion rested, at the time when the
Indian Diamond was known to be in London.
A report of my conversation in the library with
Mr. Bruff appeared to me to be exactly what
was wanted to answer this purpose—while, at
the same time, it possessed the great moral
advantage of rendering a sacrifice of sinful
self-esteem essentially necessary on my part. I
have been obliged to acknowledge that my fallen
nature got the better of me. In making that
humiliating confession, I get the better of
my fallen nature. The moral balance is
restored; the spiritual atmosphere feels clear
once more. Dear friends, we may go on again.

CHAPTER IV.

THE signing of the Will was a much shorter
matter than I had anticipated. It was
hurried over, to my thinking, in indecent haste.
Samuel, the footman, was sent for to act as
second witness—and the pen was put at once
into my aunt's hand. I felt strongly urged to
say a few appropriate words on this solemn
occasion. But Mr. Bruff's manner convinced me
that it was wisest to check the impulse while
he was in the room. In less than two minutes
it was all over—and Samuel (unbenefited by
what I might have said) had gone down-stairs
again.

Mr. Bruff folded up the Will, and then looked
my way; apparently wondering whether I did,
or did not, mean to leave him alone with my
aunt. I had my mission of mercy to fulfil, and
my bag of precious publications ready on my
lap. He might as well have expected to move
St. Paul's Cathedral by looking at it, as to move
Me. There was one merit about him (due no
doubt to his worldly training) which I have no
wish to deny. He was quick at seeing things.
I appeared to produce almost the same impression
on him which I had produced on the
cabman. He too uttered a profane expression, and
withdrew in a violent hurry, and left me mistress
of the field.

As soon as we were alone, my aunt
reclined on the sofa, and then alluded, with
some appearance of confusion, to the subject
of her Will.

"I hope you won't think yourself neglected,
Drusilla," she said. " I mean to give you your
little legacy, my dear, with my own. hand."

Here was a golden opportunity! I seized it
on the spot. In other words, I instantly
opened my bag, and took out the top publication.
It proved to be an early edition—only
the twenty-fifth—of the famous anonymous work
(believed to be by precious Miss Bellows),
entitled " The Serpent at Home." The design
of the book—with which the worldly reader
may not be acquainted—is to show how the
Evil One lies in wait for us in all the most
apparently innocent actions of our daily lives.
The chapters best adapted to female perusal
are, " Satan in the Hair Brush;" " Satan behind
the Looking Glass;" " Satan under the
Tea-Table;" "Satan out of the Window"—and
many others.

"Give your attention, dear aunt, to this
precious book—and you will give me all I ask."
With those words, I handed it to her open,
at a marked passage—one continuous burst
of burning eloquence! Subject: Satan among
the Sofa Cushions.

Poor Lady Verinder (reclining thoughtlessly
on her own sofa cushions) glanced at the book,
and handed it back to me looking more confused
than ever.

"I'm afraid, Drusilla," she said, "I must
wait till I am a little better, before I can read
that. The doctor—-"

The moment she mentioned the doctor's
name, I knew what was coming. Over and
over again, in my past experience among my
perishing fellow-creatures, the members of the
notoriously infidel profession of Medicine had
stepped between me and my mission of mercy—
on the miserable pretence that the patient
wanted quiet, and that the disturbing influence
of all others which they most dreaded, was the
influence of Miss Clack and her Books.
Precisely the same blinded materialism (working
treacherously behind my back) now sought to
rob me of the only right of property that my