The Moonstone

"Come and breakfast with me at Hotherstone's Farm, instead."

"Much obliged to you for your kindness, Mr. Franklin. But it wasn't

exactly breakfast that I was driving at. I think you mentioned that you

had something to say to me? If it's no secret, sir," said Betteredge,

suddenly abandoning the crooked way, and taking the straight one, "I'm

burning to know what's brought you down here, if you please, in this

sudden way."

"What brought me here before?" I asked.

"The Moonstone, Mr. Franklin. But what brings you now, sir?"

"The Moonstone again, Betteredge."

The old man suddenly stood still, and looked at me in the grey twilight

as if he suspected his own ears of deceiving him.

"If that's a joke, sir," he said, "I'm afraid I'm getting a little dull

in my old age. I don't take it."

"It's no joke," I answered. "I have come here to take up the inquiry

which was dropped when I left England. I have come here to do what

nobody has done yet--to find out who took the Diamond."

"Let the Diamond be, Mr. Franklin! Take my advice, and let the Diamond

be! That cursed Indian jewel has misguided everybody who has come near

it. Don't waste your money and your temper--in the fine spring time

of your life, sir--by meddling with the Moonstone. How can YOU hope to

succeed (saving your presence), when Sergeant Cuff himself made a mess

of it? Sergeant Cuff!" repeated Betteredge, shaking his forefinger at me

sternly. "The greatest policeman in England!"

"My mind is made up, my old friend. Even Sergeant Cuff doesn't daunt me.

By-the-bye, I may want to speak to him, sooner or later. Have you heard

anything of him lately?"

"The Sergeant won't help you, Mr. Franklin."

"Why not?"

"There has been an event, sir, in the police-circles, since you went

away. The great Cuff has retired from business. He has got a little

cottage at Dorking; and he's up to his eyes in the growing of roses.

I have it in his own handwriting, Mr. Franklin. He has grown the white

moss rose, without budding it on the dog-rose first. And Mr. Begbie the

gardener is to go to Dorking, and own that the Sergeant has beaten him

at last."

"It doesn't much matter," I said. "I must do without Sergeant Cuff's

help. And I must trust to you, at starting."

It is likely enough that I spoke rather carelessly.

At any rate, Betteredge seemed to be piqued by something in the reply

which I had just made to him. "You might trust to worse than me, Mr.

Franklin--I can tell you that," he said a little sharply.

The tone in which he retorted, and a certain disturbance, after he had

spoken, which I detected in his manner, suggested to me that he was

possessed of some information which he hesitated to communicate.