"
On hearing those words, the infernal detective-fever began, I suppose,
to burn in me again. At any rate, I forgot myself in the interest of
guessing this new riddle. I said rashly, "The stained dress!"
Sergeant Cuff stopped short in the dark, and laid his hand on my arm.
"Is anything thrown into that quicksand of yours, ever thrown up on the
surface again?" he asked.
"Never," I answered. "Light or heavy whatever goes into the Shivering
Sand is sucked down, and seen no more."
"Does Rosanna Spearman know that?"
"She knows it as well as I do."
"Then," says the Sergeant, "what on earth has she got to do but to tie
up a bit of stone in the stained dress and throw it into the quicksand?
There isn't the shadow of a reason why she should have hidden it--and
yet she must have hidden it. Query," says the Sergeant, walking on
again, "is the paint-stained dress a petticoat or a night-gown? or is it
something else which there is a reason for preserving at any risk? Mr.
Betteredge, if nothing occurs to prevent it, I must go to Frizinghall
to-morrow, and discover what she bought in the town, when she privately
got the materials for making the substitute dress.
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