"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."
The letter dropped from my hand. I looked at Betteredge. "In the name of
Heaven," I said, "what does it mean?"
He seemed to shrink from answering the question.
"You and Limping Lucy were alone together this morning, sir," he said.
"Did she say nothing about Rosanna Spearman?"
"She never even mentioned Rosanna Spearman's name."