“For anything particular?”
“I have got a letter to give him.”
“From Rosanna Spearman?”
“Yes.”
“Sent to you in your own letter?”
“Yes.”
Was the darkness going to lift? Were all the discoveries that I was dying to make, coming and offering themselves to me of their own accord? I was obliged to wait a moment. Sergeant Cuff had left his infection behind him. Certain signs and tokens, personal to myself, warned me that the detective-fever was beginning to set in again.
“You can’t see Mr. Franklin,” I said.
“I must, and will, see him.”
“He went to London last night.”