To lay down on the rocks, a stick, or any straight thing to
guide my hand, exactly in the line of the beacon and the flagstaff. To
take care, in doing this, that one end of the stick shall be at the edge
of the rocks, on the side of them which overlooks the quicksand. To feel
along the stick, among the sea-weed (beginning from the end of the stick
which points towards the beacon), for the Chain. To run my hand along
the Chain, when found, until I come to the part of it which stretches
over the edge of the rocks, down into the quicksand. AND THEN TO PULL
THE CHAIN."
Just as I had read the last words--underlined in the original--I heard
the voice of Betteredge behind me. The inventor of the detective-fever
had completely succumbed to that irresistible malady. "I can't stand it
any longer, Mr. Franklin. What does her letter say? For mercy's sake,
sir, tell us, what does her letter say?"
I handed him the letter, and the memorandum. He read the first
without appearing to be much interested in it. But the second--the
memorandum--produced a strong impression on him.
"The Sergeant said it!" cried Betteredge. "From first to last, sir, the
Sergeant said she had got a memorandum of the hiding-place.
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