"Of course!"
"You always thought she had some sort of confession in regard to this
matter of the Moonstone, which she wanted to make to you?"
"I certainly couldn't account for her strange conduct in any other way."
"You may set that doubt at rest, Mr. Franklin, whenever you please."
It was my turn to come to a standstill now. I tried vainly, in the
gathering darkness, to see his face. In the surprise of the moment, I
asked a little impatiently what he meant.
"Steady, sir!" proceeded Betteredge. "I mean what I say. Rosanna
Spearman left a sealed letter behind her--a letter addressed to YOU."
"Where is it?"
"In the possession of a friend of hers, at Cobb's Hole. You must have
heard tell, when you were here last, sir, of Limping Lucy--a lame girl
with a crutch."
"The fisherman's daughter?"
"The same, Mr. Franklin."
"Why wasn't the letter forwarded to me?"
"Limping Lucy has a will of her own, sir. She wouldn't give it into any
hands but yours. And you had left England before I could write to you."
"Let's go back, Betteredge, and get it at once!"
"Too late, sir, to-night. They're great savers of candles along our
coast; and they go to bed early at Cobb's Hole."
"Nonsense! We might get there in half an hour."
"You might, sir. And when you did get there, you would find the door
locked. He pointed to a light, glimmering below us; and, at the same
moment, I heard through the stillness of the evening the bubbling of a
stream. 'There's the Farm, Mr. Franklin! Make yourself comfortable for
to-night, and come to me to-morrow morning if you'll be so kind?'"
"You will go with me to the fisherman's cottage?"
"Yes, sir."
"Early?"
"As early, Mr. Franklin, as you like."
We descended the path that led to the Farm.