Chapter 4

I HAVE not a word to say about my own sensations.

My impression is, that the shock inflicted on me completely suspended my thinking and feeling power. I certainly could not have known what I was about when Betteredge joined me--for I have it on his authority that I laughed, when he asked what was the matter, and putting the nightgown into his hands, told him to read the riddle for himself.

Of what was said between us on the beach, I have not the faintest recollection. The first place in which I can now see myself again plainly is the plantation of firs. Betteredge and I are walking back together to the house; and Betteredge is telling me that I shall be able to face it, and he will be able to face it, when we have had a glass of grog.

The scene shifts from the plantation to Betteredge's little sitting-room. My resolution not to enter Rachel's house is forgotten. I feel gratefully the coolness and shadiness and quiet of the room. I drink the grog (a perfectly new luxury to me, at that time of day), which my good old friend mixes with icy-cold water from the well. Under any other circumstances, the drink would simply stupefy me. As things are, it strings up my nerves. I begin to `face it,' as Betteredge has predicted. And Betteredge, on his side, begins to `face it,' too.

The picture which I am now presenting of myself, will, I suspect, be thought a very strange one, to say the least of it. Placed in a situation which may, I think, be described as entirely without parallel, what is the first proceeding to which I resort? Do I seclude myself from all human society? Do I set my mind to analyse the abominable impossibility which, nevertheless, confronts me as an undeniable fact? Do I hurry back to London by the first train to consult the highest authorities, and to set a searching inquiry on foot immediately? No. I accept the shelter of a house which I had resolved never to degrade myself by entering again; and I sit, tippling spirits and water in the company of an old servant, at ten o'clock in the morning. Is this the conduct that might have been expected from a man placed in my horrible position? I can only answer that the sight of old Betteredge's familiar face was an inexpressible comfort to me, and that the drinking of old Betteredge's grog helped me, as I believe nothing else would have helped me, in the state of complete bodily and mental prostration into which I had fallen. I can only offer this excuse for myself; and I can only admire that invariable preservation of dignity, and that strictly logical consistency of conduct which distinguish every man and woman who may read these lines, in every emergency of their lives from the cradle to the grave.

`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.

  By PanEris using Melati.

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