dated June 23rd, for three hundred pounds.
Another, dated a week on, for the remaining
balance—seventeen hundred pounds.

How the Moonstone was trusted to the
keeping of Mr. Luker's bankers, and how the
Indians treated Mr. Luker and Mr. Godfrey
(after that had been done) you know already.

The next event in your cousin's life, refers
again to Miss Verinder. He proposed
marriage to her for the second time—and (after
having been accepted) he consented, at her
request, to consider the marriage as broken off.
One of his reasons for making this concession
has been penetrated by Mr. Bruff. Miss Verinder
had only a life-interest in her mother's
property—and there was no raising the missing
twenty thousand pounds on that.

But you will say, he might have saved the
three thousand pounds, to redeem the pledged
Diamond, if he had married. He might have
done so certainly—supposing neither his wife,
nor her guardians and trustees, objected to his
anticipating more than half of the income at
his disposal, for some unknown purpose, in the
first year of his marriage. But even if he got
over this obstacle, there was another waiting
for him in the background. The lady at the
Villa, had heard of his contemplated marriage.
A superb woman, Mr. Blake, of the sort that
are not to be trifled with—the sort with the
light complexion and the Roman nose. She
felt the utmost contempt for Mr. Godfrey
Ablewhite. It would be silent contempt, if he
made a handsome provision for her. Otherwise,
it would be contempt with a tongue to it.
Miss Verinder's life-interest allowed him no
more hope of raising the "provision" than of
raising the twenty thousand pounds. He
couldn't marry—he really couldn't marry, under
all the circumstances.

How he tried his luck again with another
lady, and how that marriage also broke down
on the question of money, you know already.
You also know of the legacy of five thousand
pounds, left to him shortly afterwards, by one
of those many admirers among the soft sex whose
good graces this fascinating man had contrived
to win. That legacy (as the event has proved)
led him to his death.

I have ascertained that when he went abroad,
on getting his five thousand pounds, he went to
Amsterdam. There, he made all the necessary
arrangements for having the Diamond cut into
separate stones. He came back (in disguise), and
redeemed the Moonstone on the appointed day.
A few days were allowed to elapse (as a precaution
agreed to by both parties), before the jewel was
actually taken out of the bank. If he had
got safe with it to Amsterdam, there would
have been just time between July 'forty-nine,
and February 'fifty (when the young gentleman
came of age) to cut the Diamond, and to make
a marketable commodity (polished or unpolished)
of the separate stones. Judge from this, what
motives he had to run the risk which he actually
ran. It was "neck or nothing" with him—if
ever it was "neck or nothing" with a man yet.

I have only to remind you, before closing
this Report, that there is a chance of laying
hands on the Indians, and of recovering
the Moonstone yet. They are now (there is
every reason to believe) on their passage to
Bombay, in an East Indiaman. The ship
(barring accidents) will touch at no other port
on her way out; and the authorities at Bombay
(already communicated with by letter, overland)
will be prepared to board the vessel, the
moment she enters the harbour.

I have the honour to remain, dear sir, your
obedient servant, RICHARD CUFF (late
sergeant in the Detective Force, Scotland Yard,
London).*

* NOTE. Wherever the Report touches on the
events of the birthday, or of the three days that
followed it, compare with Betteredge's Narrative—
Chapters VIII. to XIII.

SEVENTH NARRATIVE.
In a Letter. from Mr. Candy.

FRIZINGHALL, "Wednesday, September 26th,
1849.—Dear Mr. Franklin Blake, you will
anticipate the sad news I have to tell you, on
finding your letter to Ezra Jennings returned
to you, unopened, in this enclosure. He died
in my arms, at sunrise, on Wednesday last

I am not to blame for having failed to warn
you that his end was at hand. He expressly
forbade me to write to you. "I am indebted
to Mr. Franklin Blake," he said, "for having
seen some happy days. Don't distress him,
Mr. Candy—don't distress him."

His sufferings, up to the last six. hours of his
life, were terrible to see. In the intervals of
remission, when his mind was clear, I entreated
him to tell me of any relatives of his to whom
I might write. He asked to be forgiven for
refusing anything to me. And then he said—
not bitterly—that he would die as he had lived,
forgotten and unknown. He maintained that
resolution to the last. There is no hope now
of making any discoveries concerning him. His
story is a blank.

The day before he died, he told me where to
find all his papers. I brought them to him on
his bed. There was a little bundle of old
letters which he put aside. There was his
unfinished book. There was his Diary—in many
locked volumes. He opened the volume for
this year, and tore out, one by one, the pages
relating to the time when you and he were
together. "Give those," he said, "to Mr.
Franklin Blake. In years to come, he may
feel an interest in looking back at what is
written there." Then he clasped his hands,
and prayed God fervently to bless you, and
those dear to you. He said he should like to
see you again. But the next moment, he
altered his mind. "No," he answered, when
I offered to write. "I won't distress him! I
won't distress him!"

At his request, I next collected the other
papers—that is to say, the bundle of letters,
the unfinished book, and the volumes of the