rson as Superintendent Seegrave was still left in the
room, upon which he summed up the proceedings for his brother-officer's
benefit, as follows:

"This trifle of yours, Mr. Superintendent," says the Sergeant, pointing
to the place on the door, "has grown a little in importance since you
noticed it last. At the present stage of the inquiry there are, as I
take it, three discoveries to make, starting from that smear. Find out
(first) whether there is any article of dress in this house with the
smear of the paint on it. Find out (second) who that dress belongs to.
Find out (third) how the person can account for having been in this
room, and smeared the paint, between midnight and three in the morning.
If the person can't satisfy you, you haven't far to look for the hand
that has got the Diamond. I'll work this by myself, if you please, and
detain you no longer-from your regular business in the town. You have
got one of your men here, I see. Leave him here at my disposal, in case
I want him--and allow me to wish you good morning."

Superintendent Seegrave's respect for the Sergeant was great; but his
respect for himself was greater still. Hit hard by the celebrated Cuff,
he hit back smartly, to the best of his ability, on leaving the room.

"I have abstained from expressing any opinion, so far," says Mr.
Superintendent, with his military voice still in good working order. "I
have now only one remark to offer on leaving this case in your hands.
There IS such a thing, Sergeant, as making a mountain out of a molehill.
Good morning."

"There is also such a thing as making nothing out of a molehill, in
consequence of your head being too high to see it." Having returned
his brother-officer's compliments in those terms, Sergeant Cuff wheeled
about, and walked away to the window by himself.

Mr. Franklin and I waited to see what was coming next. The Sergeant
stood at the window with his hands in his pockets, looking out, and
whistling the tune of "The Last Rose of Summer" softly to himself. Later
in the proceedings, I discovered that he only forgot his manners so far
as to whistle, when his mind was hard at work, seeing its way inch
by inch to its own private ends, on which occasions "The Last Rose of
Summer" evidently helped and encouraged him. I suppose it fitted in
somehow with his character. It reminded him, you see, of his favourite
roses, and, as HE whistled it, it was the most melancholy tune going.

Turning from the