Kabanata Kabanata 49 · Chapter I（2）
In a quarter of an hour more, the cab stopped in Shore Lane, and
Gooseberry opened the door for us to get out.
“All right?” asked the Sergeant.
“All right,” answered the boy.
The moment we entered “The Wheel of Fortune” it was plain even to my
inexperienced eyes that there was something wrong in the house.
The only person behind the counter at which the liquors were served,
was a bewildered servant girl, perfectly ignorant of the business. One
or two customers, waiting for their morning drink, were tapping
impatiently on the counter with their money. The barmaid appeared from
the inner regions of the parlour, excited and preoccupied. She answered
Sergeant Cuff’s inquiry for the landlord, by telling him sharply that
her master was upstairs, and was not to be bothered by anybody.
“Come along with me, sir,” said Sergeant Cuff, coolly leading the way
upstairs, and beckoning to the boy to follow him.
The barmaid called to her master, and warned him that strangers were
intruding themselves into the house. On the first floor we were
encountered by the landlord, hurrying down, in a highly irritated
state, to see what was the matter.
“Who the devil are you? and what do you want here?” he asked.
“Keep your temper,” said the Sergeant, quietly. “I’ll tell you who I am
to begin with. I am Sergeant Cuff.”
The illustrious name instantly produced its effect. The angry landlord
threw open the door of a sitting-room, and asked the Sergeant’s pardon.
“I am annoyed and out of sorts, sir—that’s the truth,” he said.
“Something unpleasant has happened in the house this morning. A man in
my way of business has a deal to upset his temper, Sergeant Cuff.”
“Not a doubt of it,” said the Sergeant. “I’ll come at once, if you will
allow me, to what brings us here. This gentleman and I want to trouble
you with a few inquiries, on a matter of some interest to both of us.”
“Relating to what, sir?” asked the landlord.
“Relating to a dark man, dressed like a sailor, who slept here last
night.”
“Good God! that’s the man who is upsetting the whole house at this
moment!” exclaimed the landlord. “Do you, or does this gentleman know
anything about him?”
“We can’t be certain till we see him,” answered the Sergeant.
“See him?” echoed the landlord. “That’s the one thing that nobody has
been able to do since seven o’clock this morning. That was the time
when he left word, last night, that he was to be called. He _was_
called—and there was no getting an answer from him, and no opening his
door to see what was the matter. They tried again at eight, and they
tried again at nine. No use! There was the door still locked—and not a
sound to be heard in the room! I have been out this morning—and I only
got back a quarter of an hour ago. I have hammered at the door
myself—and all to no purpose. The potboy has gone to fetch a carpenter.
If you can wait a few minutes, gentlemen, we will have the door opened,
and see what it means.”
“Was the man drunk last night?” asked Sergeant Cuff.
“Perfectly sober, sir—or I would never have let him sleep in my house.”
“Did he pay for his bed beforehand?”
“No.”
“Could he leave the room in any way, without going out by the door?”
“The room is a garret,” said the landlord. “But there’s a trap-door in
the ceiling, leading out on to the roof—and a little lower down the
street, there’s an empty house under repair. Do you think, Sergeant,
the blackguard has got off in that way, without paying?”
“A sailor,” said Sergeant Cuff, “might have done it—early in the
morning, before the street was astir. He would be used to climbing, and
his head wouldn’t fail him on the roofs of the houses.”
As he spoke, the arrival of the carpenter was announced. We all went
upstairs, at once, to the top story. I noticed that the Sergeant was
unusually grave, even for _him_. It also struck me as odd that he told
the boy (after having previously encouraged him to follow us), to wait
in the room below till we came down again.
The carpenter’s hammer and chisel disposed of the resistance of the
door in a few minutes. But some article of furniture had been placed
against it inside, as a barricade. By pushing at the door, we thrust
this obstacle aside, and so got admission to the room. The landlord
entered first; the Sergeant second; and I third. The other persons
present followed us.
We all looked towards the bed, and all started.
The man had not left the room. He lay, dressed, on the bed—with a white
pillow over his face, which completely hid it from view.
“What does that mean?” said the landlord, pointing to the pillow.
Sergeant Cuff led the way to the bed, without answering, and removed
the pillow.
The man’s swarthy face was placid and still; his black hair and beard
were slightly, very slightly, discomposed. His eyes stared wide-open,
glassy and vacant, at the ceiling. The filmy look and the fixed
expression of them horrified me. I turned away, and went to the open
window. The rest of them remained, where Sergeant Cuff remained, at the
bed.
“He’s in a fit!” I heard the landlord say.
“He’s dead,” the Sergeant answered. “Send for the nearest doctor, and
send for the police.”
The waiter was despatched on both errands. Some strange fascination
seemed to hold Sergeant Cuff to the bed. Some strange curiosity seemed
to keep the rest of them waiting, to see what the Sergeant would do
next.
I turned again to the window. The moment afterwards, I felt a soft pull
at my coat-tails, and a small voice whispered, “Look here, sir!”
Gooseberry had followed us into the room. His loose eyes rolled
frightfully—not in terror, but in exultation. He had made a
detective-discovery on his own account. “Look here, sir,” he
repeated—and led me to a table in the corner of the room.
On the table stood a little wooden box, open, and empty. On one side of
the box lay some jewellers’ cotton. On the other side, was a torn sheet
of white paper, with a seal on it, partly destroyed, and with an
inscription in writing, which was still perfectly legible. The
inscription was in these words:
“Deposited with Messrs. Bushe, Lysaught, and Bushe, by Mr. Septimus
Luker, of Middlesex Place, Lambeth, a small wooden box, sealed up in
this envelope, and containing a valuable of great price. The box, when
claimed, to be only given up by Messrs. Bushe and Co. on the personal
application of Mr. Luker.”
Those lines removed all further doubt, on one point at least. The
sailor had been in possession of the Moonstone, when he had left the
bank on the previous day.
I felt another pull at my coat-tails. Gooseberry had not done with me
yet.
“Robbery!” whispered the boy, pointing, in high delight, to the empty
box.
“You were told to wait downstairs,” I said. “Go away!”
“And Murder!” added Gooseberry, pointing, with a keener relish still,
to the man on the bed.
There was something so hideous in the boy’s enjoyment of the horror of
the scene, that I took him by the two shoulders and put him out of the
room.
At the moment when I crossed the threshold of the door, I heard
Sergeant Cuff’s voice, asking where I was. He met me, as I returned
into the room, and forced me to go back with him to the bedside.
“Mr. Blake!” he said. “Look at the man’s face. It is a face
disguised—and here’s the proof of it!”
He traced with his finger a thin line of livid white, running backward
from the dead man’s forehead, between the swarthy complexion, and the
slightly-disturbed black hair. “Let’s see what is under this,” said the
Sergeant, suddenly seizing the black hair, with a firm grip of his
hand.
My nerves were not strong enough to bear it. I turned away again from
the bed.
The first sight that met my eyes, at the other end of the room, was the
irrepressible Gooseberry, perched on a chair, and looking with
breathless interest, over the heads of his elders, at the Sergeant’s
proceedings.
“He’s pulling off his wig!” whispered Gooseberry, compassionating my
position, as the only person in the room who could see nothing.
There was a pause—and then a cry of astonishment among the people round
the bed.
“He’s pulled off his beard!” cried Gooseberry.
There was another pause—Sergeant Cuff asked for something. The landlord
went to the wash-hand-stand, and returned to the bed with a basin of
water and a towel.
Gooseberry danced with excitement on the chair. “Come up here, along
with me, sir! He’s washing off his complexion now!”
The Sergeant suddenly burst his way through the people about him, and
came, with horror in his face, straight to the place where I was
standing.
“Come back to the bed, sir!” he began. He looked at me closer, and
checked himself “No!” he resumed. “Open the sealed letter first—the
letter I gave you this morning.”
I opened the letter.
“Read the name, Mr. Blake, that I have written inside.”
I read the name that he had written. It was—_Godfrey Ablewhite_.
“Now,” said the Sergeant, “come with me, and look at the man on the
bed.”
I went with him, and looked at the man on the bed.
GODFREY ABLEWHITE!
SIXTH NARRATIVE.
_Contributed by Sergeant Cuff._
I
Dorking, Surrey, July 30th, 1849. To Franklin Blake, Esq. Sir,—I beg to
apologise for the delay that has occurred in the production of the
Report, with which I engaged to furnish you. I have waited to make it a
complete Report; and I have been met, here and there, by obstacles
which it was only possible to remove by some little expenditure of
patience and time.
The object which I proposed to myself has now, I hope, been attained.
You will find, in these pages, answers to the greater part—if not
all—of the questions, concerning the late Mr. Godfrey Ablewhite, which
occurred to your mind when I last had the honour of seeing you.
I propose to tell you—in the first place—what is known of the manner in
which your cousin met his death; appending to the statement such
inferences and conclusions as we are justified (according to my
opinion) in drawing from the facts.
I shall then endeavour—in the second place—to put you in possession of
such discoveries as I have made, respecting the proceedings of Mr.
Godfrey Ablewhite, before, during and after the time, when you and he
met as guests at the late Lady Verinder’s country house.
II
As to your cousin’s death, then, first.
It appears to be established, beyond any reasonable doubt, that he was
killed (while he was asleep, or immediately on his waking) by being
smothered with a pillow from his bed—that the persons guilty of
murdering him are the three Indians—and that the object contemplated
(and achieved) by the crime, was to obtain possession of the diamond,
called the Moonstone.
The facts from which this conclusion is drawn, are derived partly from
an examination of the room at the tavern; and partly from the evidence
obtained at the Coroner’s Inquest.
On forcing the door of the room, the deceased gentleman was discovered,
dead, with the pillow of the bed over his face. The medical man who
examined him, being informed of this circumstance, considered the
post-mortem appearances as being perfectly compatible with murder by
smothering—that is to say, with murder committed by some person, or
persons, pressing the pillow over the nose and mouth of the deceased,
until death resulted from congestion of the lungs.
Next, as to the motive for the crime.
A small box, with a sealed paper torn off from it (the paper containing
an inscription) was found open, and empty, on a table in the room. Mr.
Luker has himself personally identified the box, the seal, and the
inscription. He has declared that the box did actually contain the
diamond, called the Moonstone; and he has admitted having given the box
(thus sealed up) to Mr. Godfrey Ablewhite (then concealed under a
disguise), on the afternoon of the twenty-sixth of June last. The fair
inference from all this is, that the stealing of the Moonstone was the
motive of the crime.
Next, as to the manner in which the crime was committed.
On examination of the room (which is only seven feet high), a trap-door
in the ceiling, leading out on to the roof of the house, was discovered
open. The short ladder, used for obtaining access to the trap-door (and
kept under the bed), was found placed at the opening, so as to enable
any person or persons, in the room, to leave it again easily. In the
trap-door itself was found a square aperture cut in the wood,
apparently with some exceedingly sharp instrument, just behind the bolt
which fastened the door on the inner side. In this way, any person from
the outside could have drawn back the bolt, and opened the door, and
have dropped (or have been noiselessly lowered by an accomplice) into
the room—its height, as already observed, being only seven feet. That
some person, or persons, must have got admission in this way, appears
evident from the fact of the aperture being there. As to the manner in
which he (or they) obtained access to the roof of the tavern, it is to
be remarked that the third house, lower down in the street, was empty,
and under repair—that a long ladder was left by the workmen, leading
from the pavement to the top of the house—and that, on returning to
their work, on the morning of the 27th, the men found the plank which
they had tied to the ladder, to prevent anyone from using it in their
absence, removed, and lying on the ground. As to the possibility of
ascending by this ladder, passing over the roofs of the houses, passing
back, and descending again, unobserved—it is discovered, on the
evidence of the night policeman, that he only passes through Shore Lane
twice in an hour, when out on his beat. The testimony of the
inhabitants also declares, that Shore Lane, after midnight, is one of
the quietest and loneliest streets in London. Here again, therefore, it
seems fair to infer that—with ordinary caution, and presence of
mind—any man, or men, might have ascended by the ladder, and might have
descended again, unobserved. Once on the roof of the tavern, it has
been proved, by experiment, that a man might cut through the trap-door,
while lying down on it, and that in such a position, the parapet in
front of the house would conceal him from the view of anyone passing in
the street.
Lastly, as to the person, or persons, by whom the crime was committed.
It is known (1) that the Indians had an interest in possessing
themselves of the Diamond. (2) It is at least probable that the man
looking like an Indian, whom Octavius Guy saw at the window of the cab,
speaking to the man dressed like a mechanic, was one of the three
Hindoo conspirators. (3) It is certain that this same man dressed like
a mechanic, was seen keeping Mr. Godfrey Ablewhite in view, all through
the evening of the 26th, and was found in the bedroom (before Mr.
Ablewhite was shown into it) under circumstances which lead to the
suspicion that he was examining the room. (4) A morsel of torn gold
thread was picked up in the bedroom, which persons expert in such
matters, declare to be of Indian manufacture, and to be a species of
gold thread not known in England. (5) On the morning of the 27th, three
men, answering to the description of the three Indians, were observed
in Lower Thames Street, were traced to the Tower Wharf, and were seen
to leave London by the steamer bound for Rotterdam.
There is here, moral, if not legal, evidence, that the murder was
committed by the Indians.
Whether the man personating a mechanic was, or was not, an accomplice
in the crime, it is impossible to say. That he could have committed the
murder alone, seems beyond the limits of probability. Acting by
himself, he could hardly have smothered Mr. Ablewhite—who was the
taller and stronger man of the two—without a struggle taking place, or
a cry being heard. A servant girl, sleeping in the next room, heard
nothing. The landlord, sleeping in the room below, heard nothing. The
whole evidence points to the inference that more than one man was
concerned in this crime—and the circumstances, I repeat, morally
justify the conclusion that the Indians committed it.
I have only to add, that the verdict at the Coroner’s Inquest was
Wilful Murder against some person, or persons, unknown. Mr. Ablewhite’s
family have offered a reward, and no effort has been left untried to
discover the guilty persons. The man dressed like a mechanic has eluded
all inquiries. The Indians have been traced. As to the prospect of
ultimately capturing these last, I shall have a word to say to you on
that head, when I reach the end of the present Report.
In the meanwhile, having now written all that is needful on the subject
of Mr. Godfrey Ablewhite’s death, I may pass next to the narrative of
his proceedings before, during, and after the time, when you and he met
at the late Lady Verinder’s house.
III
With regard to the subject now in hand, I may state, at the outset,
that Mr. Godfrey Ablewhite’s life had two sides to it.
The side turned up to the public view, presented the spectacle of a
gentleman, possessed of considerable reputation as a speaker at
charitable meetings, and endowed with administrative abilities, which
he placed at the disposal of various Benevolent Societies, mostly of
the female sort. The side kept hidden from the general notice,
exhibited this same gentleman in the totally different character of a
man of pleasure, with a villa in the suburbs which was not taken in his
own name, and with a lady in the villa, who was not taken in his own
name, either.
My investigations in the villa have shown me several fine pictures and
statues; furniture tastefully selected, and admirably made; and a
conservatory of the rarest flowers, the match of which it would not be
easy to find in all London. My investigation of the lady has resulted
in the discovery of jewels which are worthy to take rank with the
flowers, and of carriages and horses which have (deservedly) produced a
sensation in the Park, among persons well qualified to judge of the
build of the one, and the breed of the others.
All this is, so far, common enough. The villa and the lady are such
familiar objects in London life, that I ought to apologise for
introducing them to notice. But what is not common and not familiar (in
my experience), is that all these fine things were not only ordered,
but paid for. The pictures, the statues, the flowers, the jewels, the
carriages, and the horses—inquiry proved, to my indescribable
astonishment, that not a sixpence of debt was owing on any of them. As
to the villa, it had been bought, out and out, and settled on the lady.
I might have tried to find the right reading of this riddle, and tried
in vain—but for Mr. Godfrey Ablewhite’s death, which caused an inquiry
to be made into the state of his affairs.
The inquiry elicited these facts:—
That Mr. Godfrey Ablewhite was entrusted with the care of a sum of
twenty thousand pounds—as one of two Trustees for a young gentleman,
who was still a minor in the year eighteen hundred and forty-eight.
That the Trust was to lapse, and that the young gentleman was to
receive the twenty thousand pounds on the day when he came of age, in
the month of February, eighteen hundred and fifty. That, pending the
arrival of this period, an income of six hundred pounds was to be paid
to him by his two Trustees, half-yearly—at Christmas and Midsummer Day.
That this income was regularly paid by the active Trustee, Mr. Godfrey
Ablewhite. That the twenty thousand pounds (from which the income was
supposed to be derived) had every farthing of it been sold out of the
Funds, at different periods, ending with the end of the year eighteen
hundred and forty-seven. That the power of attorney, authorising the
bankers to sell out the stock, and the various written orders telling
them what amounts to sell out, were formally signed by both the
Trustees. That the signature of the second Trustee (a retired army
officer, living in the country) was a signature forged, in every case,
by the active Trustee—otherwise Mr. Godfrey Ablewhite.
In these facts lies the explanation of Mr. Godfrey’s honourable
conduct, in paying the debts incurred for the lady and the villa—and
(as you will presently see) of more besides.
We may now advance to the date of Miss Verinder’s birthday (in the year
eighteen hundred and forty-eight)—the twenty-first of June.
On the day before, Mr. Godfrey Ablewhite arrived at his father’s house,
and asked (as I know from Mr. Ablewhite, senior, himself) for a loan of
three hundred pounds. Mark the sum; and remember at the same time, that
the half-yearly payment to the young gentleman was due on the
twenty-fourth of the month. Also, that the whole of the young
gentleman’s fortune had been spent by his Trustee, by the end of the
year ’forty-seven.
Mr. Ablewhite, senior, refused to lend his son a farthing.
The next day Mr. Godfrey Ablewhite rode over, with you, to Lady
Verinder’s house. A few hours afterwards, Mr. Godfrey (as you yourself
have told me) made a proposal of marriage to Miss Verinder. Here, he
saw his way no doubt—if accepted—to the end of all his money anxieties,
present and future. But, as events actually turned out, what happened?
Miss Verinder refused him.
On the night of the birthday, therefore, Mr. Godfrey Ablewhite’s
pecuniary position was this. He had three hundred pounds to find on the
twenty-fourth of the month, and twenty thousand pounds to find in
February eighteen hundred and fifty. Failing to raise these sums, at
these times, he was a ruined man.
Under those circumstances, what takes place next?
You exasperate Mr. Candy, the doctor, on the sore subject of his
profession; and he plays you a practical joke, in return, with a dose
of laudanum. He trusts the administration of the dose, prepared in a
little phial, to Mr. Godfrey Ablewhite—who has himself confessed the
share he had in the matter, under circumstances which shall presently
be related to you. Mr. Godfrey is all the readier to enter into the
conspiracy, having himself suffered from your sharp tongue in the
course of the evening. He joins Betteredge in persuading you to drink a
little brandy and water before you go to bed. He privately drops the
dose of laudanum into your cold grog. And you drink the mixture.
Let us now shift the scene, if you please to Mr. Luker’s house at
Lambeth. And allow me to remark, by way of preface, that Mr. Bruff and
I, together, have found a means of forcing the money-lender to make a
clean breast of it. We have carefully sifted the statement he has
addressed to us; and here it is at your service.
IV
Late on the evening of Friday, the twenty-third of June (’forty-eight),
Mr. Luker was surprised by a visit from Mr. Godfrey Ablewhite. He was
more than surprised, when Mr. Godfrey produced the Moonstone. No such
Diamond (according to Mr. Luker’s experience) was in the possession of
any private person in Europe.
Mr. Godfrey Ablewhite had two modest proposals to make, in relation to
this magnificent gem. First, Would Mr. Luker be so good as to buy it?
Secondly, Would Mr. Luker (in default of seeing his way to the
purchase) undertake to sell it on commission, and to pay a sum down, on
the anticipated result?
Mr. Luker tested the Diamond, weighed the Diamond and estimated the
value of the Diamond, before he answered a word. _His_ estimate
(allowing for the flaw in the stone) was thirty thousand pounds.
Having reached that result, Mr. Luker opened his lips, and put a
question: “How did you come by this?” Only six words! But what volumes
of meaning in them!
Mr. Godfrey Ablewhite began a story. Mr. Luker opened his lips again,
and only said three words, this time. “That won’t do!”
Mr. Godfrey Ablewhite began another story. Mr. Luker wasted no more
words on him. He got up, and rang the bell for the servant to show the
gentleman out.
Upon this compulsion, Mr. Godfrey made an effort, and came out with a
new and amended version of the affair, to the following effect.
After privately slipping the laudanum into your brandy and water, he
wished you good-night, and went into his own room. It was the next room
to yours; and the two had a door of communication between them. On
entering his own room Mr. Godfrey (as he supposed) closed his door. His
money troubles kept him awake. He sat, in his dressing-gown and
slippers, for nearly an hour, thinking over his position. Just as he
was preparing to get into bed, he heard you, talking to yourself, in
your own room, and going to the door of communication, found that he
had not shut it as he supposed.
He looked into your room to see what was the matter. He discovered you
with the candle in your hand, just leaving your bedchamber. He heard
you say to yourself, in a voice quite unlike your own voice, “How do I
know? The Indians may be hidden in the house.”
Up to that time, he had simply supposed himself (in giving you the
laudanum) to be helping to make you the victim of a harmless practical
joke. It now occurred to him, that the laudanum had taken some effect
on you, which had not been foreseen by the doctor, any more than by
himself. In the fear of an accident happening he followed you softly to
see what you would do.
He followed you to Miss Verinder’s sitting-room, and saw you go in. You
left the door open. He looked through the crevice thus produced,
between the door and the post, before he ventured into the room
himself.
In that position, he not only detected you in taking the Diamond out of
the drawer—he also detected Miss Verinder, silently watching you from
her bedroom, through her open door. His own eyes satisfied him that
_she_ saw you take the Diamond, too.
Before you left the sitting-room again, you hesitated a little. Mr.
Godfrey took advantage of this hesitation to get back again to his
bedroom before you came out, and discovered him. He had barely got
back, before you got back too. You saw him (as he supposes) just as he
was passing through the door of communication. At any rate, you called
to him in a strange, drowsy voice.
He came back to you. You looked at him in a dull sleepy way. You put
the Diamond into his hand. You said to him, “Take it back, Godfrey, to
your father’s bank. It’s safe there—it’s not safe here.” You turned
away unsteadily, and put on your dressing-gown. You sat down in the
large arm-chair in your room. You said, “_I_ can’t take it back to the
bank. My head’s like lead—and I can’t feel my feet under me.” Your head
sank on the back of the chair—you heaved a heavy sigh—and you fell
asleep.
Mr. Godfrey Ablewhite went back, with the Diamond, into his own room.
His statement is, that he came to no conclusion, at that time—except
that he would wait, and see what happened in the morning.
When the morning came, your language and conduct showed that you were
absolutely ignorant of what you had said and done overnight. At the
same time, Miss Verinder’s language and conduct showed that she was
resolved to say nothing (in mercy to you) on her side. If Mr. Godfrey
Ablewhite chose to keep the Diamond, he might do so with perfect
impunity. The Moonstone stood between him and ruin. He put the
Moonstone into his pocket.
V
This was the story told by your cousin (under pressure of necessity) to
Mr. Luker.
Mr. Luker believed the story to be, as to all main essentials, true—on
this ground, that Mr. Godfrey Ablewhite was too great a fool to have
invented it. Mr. Bruff and I agree with Mr. Luker, in considering this
test of the truth of the story to be a perfectly reliable one.
The next question, was the question of what Mr. Luker would do in the
matter of the Moonstone. He proposed the following terms, as the only
terms on which he would consent to mix himself up with, what was (even
in _his_ line of business) a doubtful and dangerous transaction.
Mr. Luker would consent to lend Mr. Godfrey Ablewhite the sum of two
thousand pounds, on condition that the Moonstone was to be deposited
with him as a pledge. If, at the expiration of one year from that date,
Mr. Godfrey Ablewhite paid three thousand pounds to Mr. Luker, he was
to receive back the Diamond, as a pledge redeemed. If he failed to
produce the money at the expiration of the year, the pledge (otherwise
the Moonstone) was to be considered as forfeited to Mr. Luker—who
would, in this latter case, generously make Mr. Godfrey a present of
certain promissory notes of his (relating to former dealings) which
were then in the money-lender’s possession.
It is needless to say, that Mr. Godfrey indignantly refused to listen
to these monstrous terms. Mr. Luker thereupon, handed him back the
Diamond, and wished him good-night.
Your cousin went to the door, and came back again. How was he to be
sure that the conversation of that evening would be kept strictly
secret between his friend and himself?
Mr. Luker didn’t profess to know how. If Mr. Godfrey had accepted his
terms, Mr. Godfrey would have made him an accomplice, and might have
counted on his silence as on a certainty. As things were, Mr. Luker
must be guided by his own interests. If awkward inquiries were made,
how could he be expected to compromise himself, for the sake of a man
who had declined to deal with him?
Receiving this reply, Mr. Godfrey Ablewhite did, what all animals
(human and otherwise) do, when they find themselves caught in a trap.
He looked about him in a state of helpless despair. The day of the
month, recorded on a neat little card in a box on the money-lender’s
chimney-piece, happened to attract his eye. It was the twenty-third of
June. On the twenty-fourth he had three hundred pounds to pay to the
young gentleman for whom he was trustee, and no chance of raising the
money, except the chance that Mr. Luker had offered to him. But for
this miserable obstacle, he might have taken the Diamond to Amsterdam,
and have made a marketable commodity of it, by having it cut up into
separate stones. As matters stood, he had no choice but to accept Mr.
Luker’s terms. After all, he had a year at his disposal, in which to
raise the three thousand pounds—and a year is a long time.
Mr. Luker drew out the necessary documents on the spot. When they were
signed, he gave Mr. Godfrey Ablewhite two cheques. One, dated June
23rd, for three hundred pounds. Another, dated a week on, for the
remaining balance—seventeen hundred pounds.
How the Moonstone was trusted to the keeping of Mr. Luker’s bankers, and
how the Indians treated Mr. Luker and Mr. Godfrey (after that had been
done) you know already.