The Moonstone

"They have seen the Moonstone on Miss Verinder's dress," he said. "What

is to be done?"

"What your uncle threatened to do," answered Mr. Murthwaite. "Colonel

Herncastle understood the people he had to deal with. Send the Diamond

to-morrow (under guard of more than one man) to be cut up at Amsterdam.

Make half a dozen diamonds of it, instead of one. There is an end of

its sacred identity as The Moonstone--and there is an end of the

conspiracy."

Mr. Franklin turned to me.

"There is no help for it," he said. "We must speak to Lady Verinder

to-morrow."

"What about to-night, sir?" I asked. "Suppose the Indians come back?"

Mr. Murthwaite answered me before Mr. Franklin could speak.

"The Indians won't risk coming back to-night," he said. "The direct way

is hardly ever the way they take to anything--let alone a matter like

this, in which the slightest mistake might be fatal to their reaching

their end."

"But suppose the rogues are bolder than you think, sir?" I persisted.

"In that case," says Mr. Murthwaite, "let the dogs loose. Have you got

any big dogs in the yard?"

"Two, sir. A mastiff and a bloodhound."

"They will do. In the present emergency, Mr. Betteredge, the mastiff and

the bloodhound have one great merit--they are not likely to be troubled

with your scruples about the sanctity of human life."

The strumming of the piano reached us from the drawing-room, as he fired

that shot at me. He threw away his cheroot, and took Mr. Franklin's arm,

to go back to the ladies. I noticed that the sky was clouding over

fast, as I followed them to the house. Mr. Murthwaite noticed it too. He

looked round at me, in his dry, droning way, and said: "The Indians will want their umbrellas, Mr. Betteredge, to-night!"

It was all very well for HIM to joke. But I was not an eminent

traveller--and my way in this world had not led me into playing

ducks and drakes with my own life, among thieves and murderers in the

outlandish places of the earth. I went into my own little room, and sat

down in my chair in a perspiration, and wondered helplessly what was to

be done next. In this anxious frame of mind, other men might have ended

by working themselves up into a fever; I ended in a different way. I lit

my pipe, and took a turn at ROBINSON CRUSOE.

Before I had been at it five minutes, I came to this amazing bit--page

one hundred and sixty-one--as follows: "Fear of Danger is ten thousand times more terrifying than Danger

itself, when apparent to the Eyes; and we find the Burthen of Anxiety

greater, by much, than the Evil which we are anxious about."