Franklin."
"Why not?"
"There has been an event, sir, in the police-circles, since you went
away. The great Cuff has retired from business. He has got a little
cottage at Dorking; and he's up to his eyes in the growing of roses.
I have it in his own handwriting, Mr. Franklin. He has grown the white
moss rose, without budding it on the dog-rose first. And Mr. Begbie the
gardener is to go to Dorking, and own that the Sergeant has beaten him
at last."
"It doesn't much matter," I said. "I must do without Sergeant Cuff's
help. And I must trust to you, at starting."
It is likely enough that I spoke rather carelessly.
At any rate, Betteredge seemed to be piqued by something in the reply
which I had just made to him. "You might trust to worse than me, Mr.
Franklin--I can tell you that," he said a little sharply.
The tone in which he retorted, and a certain disturbance, after he had
spoken, which I detected in his manner, suggested to me that he was
possessed of some information which he hesitated to communicate.
"I expect you to help me," I said, "in picking up the fragments of
evidence which Sergeant Cuff has left behind him.
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