The scene shifts from the plantation, to Betteredge's littlesitting-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. Underany other circumstances, the drink would simply stupefy me. As thingsare, it strings up my nerves. I begin to "face it," as Betteredge haspredicted. 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 asituation which may, I think, be described as entirely without parallel,what is the first proceeding to which I resort? Do I seclude myselffrom all human society? Do I set my mind to analyse the abominableimpossibility which, nevertheless, confronts me as an undeniable fact?Do I hurry back to London by the first train to consult the highestauthorities, and to set a searching inquiry on foot immediately? No.I accept the shelter of a house which I had resolved never to degrademyself by entering again; and I sit, tippling spirits and water in thecompany of an old servant, at ten o'clock in the morning. Is this theconduct that might have been expected from a man placed in my horribleposition? I can only answer that the sight of old Betteredge's familiarface was an inexpressible comfort to me, and that the drinking of oldBetteredge's grog helped me, as I believe nothing else would have helpedme, in the state of complete bodily and mental prostration into whichI had fallen. I can only offer this excuse for myself; and I can onlyadmire that invariable preservation of dignity, and that strictlylogical consistency of conduct which distinguish every man and woman whomay read these lines, in every emergency of their lives from the cradleto the grave.
"Now, Mr. Franklin, there's one thing certain, at any rate," saidBetteredge, throwing the nightgown down on the table between us, andpointing to it as if it was a living creature that could hear him. "HE'Sa liar, to begin with."
This comforting view of the matter was not the view that presenteditself to my mind.
"I am as innocent of all knowledge of having taken the Diamond as youare," I said. "But there is the witness against me! The paint on thenightgown, 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'llget over the weakness of believing in facts! Foul play, sir!" hecontinued, dropping his voice confidentially. "That is how I read theriddle. Foul play somewhere--and you and I must find it out. Was therenothing else in the tin case, when you put your hand into it?"
The question instantly reminded me of the letter in my pocket. I tookit out, and opened it. It was a letter of many pages, closely written. Ilooked impatiently for the signature at the end. "Rosanna Spearman."
As I read the name, a sudden remembrance illuminated my mind, and asudden suspicion rose out of the new light.
"Stop!" I exclaimed. "Rosanna Spearman came to my aunt out of areformatory? 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 Diamondafter all? How do we know she may not have smeared my nightgownpurposely with the paint?"
Betteredge laid his hand on my arm, and stopped me before I could sayany more.
"You will be cleared of this, Mr. Franklin, beyond all doubt. But Ihope you won't be cleared in THAT way. See what the letter says, sir. Injustice to the girl's memory, see what it says."
I felt the earnestness with which he spoke--felt it as a friendly rebuketo me. "You shall form your own judgment on her letter," I said. "I willread it out."
I began--and read these lines:
"Sir--I have something to own to you. A confession which means muchmisery, may sometimes be made in very few words. This confession can bemade in three words. I love you."
The letter dropped from my hand. I looked at Betteredge. "In the name ofHeaven," 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."
"Please to go back to the letter, Mr. Franklin. I tell you plainly, Ican't find it in my heart to distress you, after what you have had tobear already. Let her speak for herself, sir. And get on with your grog.For your own sake, get on with your grog."
I resumed the reading of the letter.
"It would be very disgraceful to me to tell you this, if I was a livingwoman when you read it. I shall be dead and gone, sir, when you find myletter. It is that which makes me bold. Not even my grave will be leftto tell of me. I may own the truth--with the quicksand waiting to hideme when the words are written.
"Besides, you will find your nightgown in my hiding-place, with thesmear of the paint on it; and you will want to know how it came to behidden by me? and why I said nothing to you about it in my life-time?I have only one reason to give. I did these strange things, because Iloved you.
"I won't trouble you with much about myself, or my life, before you cameto my lady's house. Lady Verinder took me out of a reformatory. Ihad gone to the reformatory from the prison. I was put in the prison,because I was a thief. I was a thief, because my mother went on thestreets when I was quite a little girl. My mother went on the streets,because the gentleman who was my father deserted her. There is no needto tell such a common story as this, at any length. It is told quiteoften enough in the newspapers.
"Lady Verinder was very kind to me, and Mr. Betteredge was very kindto me. Those two, and the matron at the reformatory, are the only goodpeople I have ever met with in all my life. I might have got on inmy place--not happily--but I might have got on, if you had not comevisiting. I don't blame you, sir. It's my fault--all my fault.
"Do you remember when you came out on us from among the sand hills,that morning, looking for Mr. Betteredge? You were like a prince ina fairy-story. You were like a lover in a dream. You were the mostadorable human creature I had ever seen. Something that felt like thehappy life I had never led yet, leapt up in me at the instant I set eyeson you. Don't laugh at this if you can help it. Oh, if I could only makeyou feel how serious it is to ME!
"I went back to the house, and wrote your name and mine in my work-box,and drew a true lovers' knot under them. Then, some devil--no, I oughtto say some good angel--whispered to me, 'Go and look in the glass.' Theglass told me--never mind what. I was too foolish to take the warning.I went on getting fonder and fonder of you, just as if I was a lady inyour own rank of life, and the most beautiful creature your eyes everrested on. I tried--oh, dear, how I tried--to get you to look at me.If you had known how I used to cry at night with the misery and themortification of your never taking any notice of me, you would havepitied me perhaps, and have given me a look now and then to live on.
"It would have been no very kind look, perhaps, if you had known howI hated Miss Rachel. I believe I found out you were in love with her,before you knew it yourself. She used to give you roses to wear in yourbutton-hole. Ah, Mr. Franklin, you wore my roses oftener than either youor she thought! The only comfort I had at that time, was putting my rosesecretly in your glass of water, in place of hers--and then throwing herrose away.
"If she had been really as pretty as you thought her, I might have borneit better. No; I believe I should have been more spiteful against herstill. Suppose you put Miss Rachel into a servant's dress, and took herornaments off? I don't know what is the use of my writing in this way.It can't be denied that she had a bad figure; she was too thin. Butwho can tell what the men like? And young ladies may behave in a mannerwhich would cost a servant her place. It's no business of mine. I can'texpect you to read my letter, if I write it in this way. But it doesstir one up to hear Miss Rachel called pretty, when one knows all thetime that it'
s her dress does it, and her confidence in herself.
"Try not to lose patience with me, sir. I will get on as fast as I canto the time which is sure to interest you--the time when the Diamond waslost.
"But there is one thing which I have got it on my mind to tell youfirst.
"My life was not a very hard life to bear, while I was a thief. Itwas only when they had taught me at the reformatory to feel my owndegradation, and to try for better things, that the days grew long andweary. Thoughts of the future forced themselves on me now. I feltthe dreadful reproach that honest people--even the kindest of honestpeople--were to me in themselves. A heart-breaking sensation ofloneliness kept with me, go where I might, and do what I might, and seewhat persons I might. It was my duty, I know, to try and get on with myfellow-servants in my new place. Somehow, I couldn't make friends withthem. They looked (or I thought they looked) as if they suspected whatI had been. I don't regret, far from it, having been roused to make theeffort to be a reformed woman--but, indeed, indeed it was a weary life.You had come across it like a beam of sunshine at first--and then youtoo failed me. I was mad enough to love you; and I couldn't even attractyour notice. There was great misery--there really was great misery inthat.
"Now I am coming to what I wanted to tell you. In those days ofbitterness, I went two or three times, when it was my turn to go out,to my favourite place--the beach above the Shivering Sand. And I said tomyself, 'I think it will end here. When I can bear it no longer, I thinkit will end here.' You will understand, sir, that the place had laida kind of spell on me before you came. I had always had a notion thatsomething would happen to me at the quicksand. But I had never lookedat it, with the thought of its being the means of my making away withmyself, till the time came of which I am now writing. Then I did thinkthat here was a place which would end all my troubles for me in a momentor two--and hide me for ever afterwards.
"This is all I have to say about myself, reckoning from the morning whenI first saw you, to the morning when the alarm was raised in the housethat the Diamond was lost.
"I was so aggravated by the foolish talk among the women servants, allwondering who was to be suspected first; and I was so angry with you(knowing no better at that time) for the pains you took in hunting forthe jewel, and sending for the police, that I kept as much aspossible away by myself, until later in the day, when the officer fromFrizinghall came to the house.
"Mr. Seegrave began, as you may remember, by setting a guard on thewomen's bedrooms; and the women all followed him up-stairs in a rage,to know what he meant by the insult he had put on them. I went withthe rest, because if I had done anything different from the rest, Mr.Seegrave was the sort of man who would have suspected me directly. Wefound him in Miss Rachel's room. He told us he wouldn't have a lot ofwomen there; and he pointed to the smear on the painted door, andsaid some of our petticoats had done the mischief, and sent us alldown-stairs again.
"After leaving Miss Rachel's room, I stopped a moment on one of thelandings, by myself, to see if I had got the paint-stain by any chanceon MY gown. Penelope Betteredge (the only one of the women with whom Iwas on friendly terms) passed, and noticed what I was about.
"'You needn't trouble yourself, Rosanna,' she said. 'The paint on MissRachel's door has been dry for hours. If Mr. Seegrave hadn't set a watchon our bedrooms, I might have told him as much. I don't know what youthink--I was never so insulted before in my life!'
"Penelope was a hot-tempered girl. I quieted her, and brought her backto what she had said about the paint on the door having been dry forhours.
"'How do you know that?' I asked.
"'I was with Miss Rachel, and Mr. Franklin, all yesterday morning,'Penelope said, 'mixing the colours, while they finished the door. Iheard Miss Rachel ask whether the door would be dry that evening, intime for the birthday company to see it. And Mr. Franklin shook hishead, and said it wouldn't be dry in less than twelve hours. It was longpast luncheon-time--it was three o'clock before they had done. What doesyour arithmetic say, Rosanna? Mine says the door was dry by three thismorning.'
"'Did some of the ladies go up-stairs yesterday evening to see it?' Iasked. 'I thought I heard Miss Rachel warning them to keep clear of thedoor.'
"'None of the ladies made the smear,' Penelope answered. 'I left MissRachel in bed at twelve last night. And I noticed the door, and therewas nothing wrong with it then.'
"'Oughtn't you to mention this to Mr. Seegrave, Penelope?'
"'I wouldn't say a word to help Mr. Seegrave for anything that could beoffered to me!'
"She went to her work, and I went to mine."
"My work, sir, was to make your bed, and to put your room tidy. It wasthe happiest hour I had in the whole day. I used to kiss the pillow onwhich your head had rested all night. No matter who has done it since,you have never had your clothes folded as nicely as I folded them foryou. Of all the little knick-knacks in your dressing-case, there wasn'tone that had so much as a speck on it. You never noticed it, any morethan you noticed me. I beg your pardon; I am forgetting myself. I willmake haste, and go on again.
"Well, I went in that morning to do my work in your room. There was yournightgown tossed across the bed, just as you had thrown it off. I tookit up to fold it--and I saw the stain of the paint from Miss Rachel'sdoor!
"I was so startled by the discovery that I ran out with the nightgownin my hand, and made for the back stairs, and locked myself into my ownroom, to look at it in a place where nobody could intrude and interruptme.
"As soon as I got my breath again, I called to mind my talk withPenelope, and I said to myself, 'Here's the proof that he was inMiss Rachel's sitting-room between twelve last night, and three thismorning!'
"I shall not tell you in plain words what was the first suspicion thatcrossed my mind, when I had made that discovery. You would only beangry--and, if you were angry, you might tear my letter up and read nomore of it.
"Let it be enough, if you please, to say only this. After thinking itover to the best of my ability, I made it out that the thing wasn'tlikely, for a reason that I will tell you. If you had been in MissRachel's sitting-room, at that time of night, with Miss Rachel'sknowledge (and if you had been foolish enough to forget to take care ofthe wet door) SHE would have reminded you--SHE would never have let youcarry away such a witness against her, as the witness I was looking atnow! At the same time, I own I was not completely certain in my ownmind that I had proved my own suspicion to be wrong. You will not haveforgotten that I have owned to hating Miss Rachel. Try to think, if youcan, that there was a little of that hatred in all this. It ended in mydetermining to keep the nightgown, and to wait, and watch, and see whatuse I might make of it. At that time, please to remember, not the ghostof an idea entered my head that you had stolen the Diamond."
There, I broke off in the reading of the letter for the second time.
I had read those portions of the miserable woman's confession whichrelated to myself, with unaffected surprise, and, I can honestly add,with sincere distress. I had regretted, truly regretted, the aspersionwhich I had thoughtlessly cast on her memory, before I had seen a lineof her letter. But when I had advanced as far as the passage which isquoted above, I own I felt my mind growing bitterer and bitterer againstRosanna Spearman as I went on. "Read the rest for yourself," I said,handing the letter to Betteredge across the table. "If there is anythingin it that I must look at, you can tell me as you go on."
"I understand you, Mr. Franklin," he answered. "It's natural, sir, inYOU. And, God help us all!" he added, in a lower tone, "it's no lessnatural in HER."
I proceed to copy the continuation of the letter from the original, inmy own possession:--
"Having determined to keep the nightgown, and to see what use my love,or my revenge (I hardly know which) could turn it to in the future,the next thing to discover was how to keep it without the risk of beingfound out.
"There was only one way--to make another nightgown exactly like it,before Saturday came, and brought the laundry-
woman and her inventory tothe house.
"I was afraid to put it off till next day (the Friday); being in doubtlest some accident might happen in the interval. I determined to makethe new nightgown on that same day (the Thursday), while I could count,if I played my cards properly, on having my time to myself. The firstthing to do (after locking up your nightgown in my drawer) was to goback to your bed-room--not so much to put it to rights (Penelope wouldhave done that for me, if I had asked her) as to find out whether youhad smeared off any of the paint-stain from your nightgown, on the bed,or on any piece of furniture in the room.
"I examined everything narrowly, and at last, I found a few streaksof the paint on the inside of your dressing-gown--not the linendressing-gown you usually wore in that summer season, but a flanneldressing-gown which you had with you also. I suppose you felt chillyafter walking to and fro in nothing but your nightdress, and put on thewarmest thing you could find. At any rate, there were the stains, justvisible, on the inside of the dressing-gown. I easily got rid of theseby scraping away the stuff of the flannel. This done, the only proofleft against you was the proof locked up in my drawer.
"I had just finished your room when I was sent for to be questionedby Mr. Seegrave, along with the rest of the servants. Next came theexamination of all our boxes. And then followed the most extraordinaryevent of the day--to ME--since I had found the paint on your nightgown.This event came out of the second questioning of Penelope Betteredge bySuperintendent Seegrave.
"Penelope returned to us quite beside herself with rage at the mannerin which Mr. Seegrave had treated her. He had hinted, beyond thepossibility of mistaking him, that he suspected her of being the thief.We were all equally astonished at hearing this, and we all asked, Why?
"'Because the Diamond was in Miss Rachel's sitting-room," Penelopeanswered. "And because I was the last person in the sitting-room atnight!"
"Almost before the words had left her lips, I remembered that anotherperson had been in the sitting-room later than Penelope. That personwas yourself. My head whirled round, and my thoughts were in dreadfulconfusion. In the midst of it all, something in my mind whispered to methat the smear on your nightgown might have a meaning entirely differentto the meaning which I had given to it up to that time. 'If the lastperson who was in the room is the person to be suspected,' I thought tomyself, 'the thief is not Penelope, but Mr. Franklin Blake!'
"In the case of any other gentleman, I believe I should have beenashamed of suspecting him of theft, almost as soon as the suspicion hadpassed through my mind.
"But the bare thought that YOU had let yourself down to my level, andthat I, in possessing myself of your nightgown, had also possessedmyself of the means of shielding you from being discovered, anddisgraced for life--I say, sir, the bare thought of this seemed toopen such a chance before me of winning your good will, that I passedblindfold, as one may say, from suspecting to believing. I made up mymind, on the spot, that you had shown yourself the busiest of anybodyin fetching the police, as a blind to deceive us all; and that the handwhich had taken Miss Rachel's jewel could by no possibility be any otherhand than yours.
"The excitement of this new discovery of mine must, I think, have turnedmy head for a while. I felt such a devouring eagerness to see you--totry you with a word or two about the Diamond, and to MAKE you look atme, and speak to me, in that way--that I put my hair tidy, and mademyself as nice as I could, and went to you boldly in the library where Iknew you were writing.
"You had left one of your rings up-stairs, which made as good an excusefor my intrusion as I could have desired. But, oh, sir! if you have everloved, you will understand how it was that all my courage cooled, whenI walked into the room, and found myself in your presence. And then, youlooked up at me so coldly, and you thanked me for finding your ring insuch an indifferent manner, that my knees trembled under me, and I feltas if I should drop on the floor at your feet. When you had thanked me,you looked back, if you remember, at your writing. I was so mortified atbeing treated in this way, that I plucked up spirit enough to speak. Isaid, 'This is a strange thing about the Diamond, sir.' And you lookedup again, and said, 'Yes, it is!' You spoke civilly (I can't deny that);but still you kept a distance--a cruel distance between us. Believing,as I did, that you had got the lost Diamond hidden about you, while youwere speaking, your coolness so provoked me that I got bold enough, inthe heat of the moment, to give you a hint. I said, 'They will neverfind the Diamond, sir, will they? No! nor the person who took it--I'llanswer for that.' I nodded, and smiled at you, as much as to say, 'Iknow!' THIS time, you looked up at me with something like interest inyour eyes; and I felt that a few more words on your side and mine mightbring out the truth. Just at that moment, Mr. Betteredge spoilt it allby coming to the door. I knew his footstep, and I also knew that it wasagainst his rules for me to be in the library at that time of day--letalone being there along with you. I had only just time to get out of myown accord, before he could come in and tell me to go. I was angry anddisappointed; but I was not entirely without hope for all that. The ice,you see, was broken between us--and I thought I would take care, on thenext occasion, that Mr. Betteredge was out of the way.
"When I got back to the servants' hall, the bell was going for ourdinner. Afternoon already! and the materials for making the newnightgown were still to be got! There was but one chance of gettingthem. I shammed ill at dinner; and so secured the whole of the intervalfrom then till tea-time to my own use.
"What I was about, while the household believed me to be lying downin my own room; and how I spent the night, after shamming ill again attea-time, and having been sent up to bed, there is no need to tell you.Sergeant Cuff discovered that much, if he discovered nothing more. AndI can guess how. I was detected (though I kept my veil down) in thedraper's shop at Frizinghall. There was a glass in front of me, at thecounter where I was buying the longcloth; and--in that glass--I saw oneof the shopmen point to my shoulder and whisper to another. At nightagain, when I was secretly at work, locked into my room, I heard thebreathing of the women servants who suspected me, outside my door.
"It didn't matter then; it doesn't matter now. On the Friday morning,hours before Sergeant Cuff entered the house, there was the newnightgown--to make up your number in place of the nightgown that I hadgot--made, wrung out, dried, ironed, marked, and folded as the laundrywoman folded all the others, safe in your drawer. There was no fear (ifthe linen in the house was examined) of the newness of the nightgownbetraying me. All your underclothing had been renewed, when you came toour house--I suppose on your return home from foreign parts.
"The next thing was the arrival of Sergeant Cuff; and the next greatsurprise was the announcement of what HE thought about the smear on thedoor.
"I had believed you to be guilty (as I have owned), more because Iwanted you to be guilty than for any other reason. And now, the Sergeanthad come round by a totally different way to the same conclusion(respecting the nightgown) as mine! And I had got the dress that wasthe only proof against you! And not a living creature knew it--yourselfincluded! I am afraid to tell you how I felt when I called these thingsto mind--you would hate my memory for ever afterwards."
At that place, Betteredge looked up from the letter.
"Not a glimmer of light so far, Mr. Franklin," said the old man, takingoff his heavy tortoiseshell spectacles, and pushing Rosanna Spearman'sconfession a little away from him. "Have you come to any conclusion,sir, in your own mind, while I have been reading?"
"Finish the letter first, Betteredge; there may be something toenlighten us at the end of it. I shall have a word or two to say to youafter that."
"Very good, sir. I'll just rest my eyes, and then I'll go on again. Inthe meantime, Mr. Franklin--I don't want to hurry you--but would youmind telling me, in one word, whether you see your way out of thisdreadful mess yet?"
"I see my way back to London," I said, "to consult Mr. Bruff. If hecan't help me----"
"Yes, sir?"
"And if the Sergeant won't
leave his retirement at Dorking----"
"He won't, Mr. Franklin!"
"Then, Betteredge--as far as I can see now--I am at the end of myresources. After Mr. Bruff and the Sergeant, I don't know of a livingcreature who can be of the slightest use to me."
As the words passed my lips, some person outside knocked at the door ofthe room.
Betteredge looked surprised as well as annoyed by the interruption.
"Come in," he called out, irritably, "whoever you are!"
The door opened, and there entered to us, quietly, the mostremarkable-looking man that I had ever seen. Judging him by his figureand his movements, he was still young. Judging him by his face, andcomparing him with Betteredge, he looked the elder of the two. Hiscomplexion was of a gipsy darkness; his fleshless cheeks had fallen intodeep hollows, over which the bone projected like a pent-house. His nosepresented the fine shape and modelling so often found among the ancientpeople of the East, so seldom visible among the newer races of theWest. His forehead rose high and straight from the brow. His marks andwrinkles were innumerable. From this strange face, eyes, stranger still,of the softest brown--eyes dreamy and mournful, and deeply sunk intheir orbits--looked out at you, and (in my case, at least) tookyour attention captive at their will. Add to this a quantity of thickclosely-curling hair, which, by some freak of Nature, had lost itscolour in the most startlingly partial and capricious manner. Over thetop of his head it was still of the deep black which was its naturalcolour. Round the sides of his head--without the slightest gradationof grey to break the force of the extraordinary contrast--it had turnedcompletely white. The line between the two colours preserved no sortof regularity. At one place, the white hair ran up into the black; atanother, the black hair ran down into the white. I looked at the manwith a curiosity which, I am ashamed to say, I found it quite impossibleto control. His soft brown eyes looked back at me gently; and he metmy involuntary rudeness in staring at him, with an apology which I wasconscious that I had not deserved.
"I beg your pardon," he said. "I had no idea that Mr. Betteredge wasengaged." He took a slip of paper from his pocket, and handed it toBetteredge. "The list for next week," he said. His eyes just rested onme again--and he left the room as quietly as he had entered it.
"Who is that?" I asked.
"Mr. Candy's assistant," said Betteredge. "By-the-bye, Mr. Franklin, youwill be sorry to hear that the little doctor has never recovered thatillness he caught, going home from the birthday dinner. He's prettywell in health; but he lost his memory in the fever, and he has neverrecovered more than the wreck of it since. The work all falls on hisassistant. Not much of it now, except among the poor. THEY can't helpthemselves, you know. THEY must put up with the man with the piebaldhair, and the gipsy complexion--or they would get no doctoring at all."
"You don't seem to like him, Betteredge?"
"Nobody likes him, sir."
"Why is he so unpopular?"
"Well, Mr. Franklin, his appearance is against him, to begin with.And then there's a story that Mr. Candy took him with a very doubtfulcharacter. Nobody knows who he is--and he hasn't a friend in the place.How can you expect one to like him, after that?"
"Quite impossible, of course! May I ask what he wanted with you, when hegave you that bit of paper?"
"Only to bring me the weekly list of the sick people about here,sir, who stand in need of a little wine. My lady always had a regulardistribution of good sound port and sherry among the infirm poor; andMiss Rachel wishes the custom to be kept up. Times have changed! timeshave changed! I remember when Mr. Candy himself brought the list to mymistress. Now it's Mr. Candy's assistant who brings the list to me.I'll go on with the letter, if you will allow me, sir," said Betteredge,drawing Rosanna Spearman's confession back to him. "It isn't livelyreading, I grant you. But, there! it keeps me from getting sour withthinking of the past." He put on his spectacles, and wagged his headgloomily. "There's a bottom of good sense, Mr. Franklin, in our conductto our mothers, when they first start us on the journey of life. We areall of us more or less unwilling to be brought into the world. And weare all of us right."
Mr. Candy's assistant had produced too strong an impression on me tobe immediately dismissed from my thoughts. I passed over the lastunanswerable utterance of the Betteredge philosophy; and returned to thesubject of the man with the piebald hair.
"What is his name?" I asked.
"As ugly a name as need be," Betteredge answered gruffly. "EzraJennings."
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