CHAPTER II

von Wilkie Collins

The next thing I need to do is share what I know about the Moonstone—or more accurately, about the Indian plot to steal the diamond. Although my knowledge is limited, I believe it holds significant importance regarding events that are yet to unfold.

About a week or ten days after Miss Verinder had left us, one of my clerks walked into my private office, holding a card. He informed me that a gentleman was downstairs, eager to speak with me.

I glanced at the card. It bore a foreign name that I can’t recall, but what stuck with me was the line written in English at the bottom: “Recommended by Mr. Septimus Luker.”

I was taken aback by the audacity of someone in Mr. Luker’s position recommending anyone to me. For a moment, I sat in silence, wondering if I had misread the card. The clerk, noticing my confusion, shared his own impression of the stranger waiting downstairs.

“He’s quite an impressive-looking man, sir. His complexion is so dark that we all assumed he was Indian or something similar.”

Putting together the clerk’s observation and the note on the card, I began to suspect that the Moonstone might be the reason behind Mr. Luker’s recommendation and the stranger’s visit. To my clerk’s surprise, I decided to grant the gentleman an interview.

To justify this unprofessional indulgence of curiosity, I must remind anyone reading this that no one in England has been more closely connected to the saga of the Indian Diamond than I have. I was entrusted with Colonel Herncastle’s secret plan to escape assassination. I received his letters, confirming he was still alive. I drafted his will, leaving the Moonstone to Miss Verinder. I persuaded his executor to act, hoping the jewel would be a valuable addition to the family. Lastly, I convinced Mr. Franklin Blake to transport the diamond to Lady Verinder’s house. If anyone has a rightful claim to be interested in the Moonstone and everything surrounding it, it’s certainly me.

As soon as my mysterious visitor entered, I felt a strong conviction that I was in the presence of one of the three Indians—most likely the chief. He was dressed in European attire, but his dark complexion, tall and slender figure, and his dignified, graceful manner revealed his Oriental heritage to anyone observant enough to notice.

I gestured to a chair and asked him what brought him to me.

After apologizing—in impressively fluent English—for interrupting me, the Indian revealed a small parcel wrapped in cloth of gold. He carefully unwrapped it, revealing a beautifully crafted box, richly inlaid with jewels against an ebony background.

“I have come, sir,” he said, “to ask you for a loan. I leave this as assurance that my debt will be repaid.”

I pointed to his card. “And you’re here on Mr. Luker’s recommendation?”

The Indian nodded.

“May I ask why Mr. Luker didn’t lend you the money himself?”

“Mr. Luker informed me, sir, that he had no money to lend.”

“And so he sent you to me?”

He gestured to the card again. “It is written there,” he replied.

A succinct answer, straight to the point! I knew that if the Moonstone had been in my possession, this man would have killed me without hesitation. Yet, aside from that minor detail, I must admit he was the perfect client. He may not have valued my life, but he respected my time—something I had rarely experienced with my own countrymen.

“I’m sorry you had to come all this way,” I said. “Mr. Luker is mistaken in sending you here. Like others in my profession, I have money to lend, but I never lend to strangers, nor do I lend on such security as you’ve provided.”

Rather than trying to persuade me to bend my rules, the Indian simply bowed again, wrapped his box back up without protest, and stood to leave the moment I finished speaking.

“Before I leave, may I ask you just one question?” he said, his tone dripping with condescension.

I nodded. Just one question? That was a change; usually, I was bombarded with at least fifty.

“If it had been possible for you to lend me the money,” he continued, “how long would it have taken for me to pay it back?”

“Typically, in this country, you would have had a year from the date the money was lent to repay it, if you chose to do so,” I replied.

The Indian gave me a final, deep bow and then slipped out of the room with a grace that startled me. It was so sudden and quiet, almost feline, that it took me a moment to gather my thoughts.

Once I regained my composure, I realized something about my enigmatic visitor. His demeanor—his face, voice, and manner—was so controlled that it defied any scrutiny. Yet, he had given me a glimpse beneath that polished exterior. Until I mentioned the repayment period, he hadn’t seemed to remember anything I said. When I provided that detail, he looked me directly in the eye for the first time. It struck me that he had a specific reason for asking that last question and was genuinely interested in my answer. The more I thought about our conversation, the more I suspected that the casket and the request for a loan were merely formalities, a way to lead up to his final inquiry.

I was still piecing together the Indian’s motives when a letter arrived, and to my surprise, it was from Mr. Septimus Luker himself. He apologized profusely, his words dripping with insincerity, and insisted he could clarify everything if I would agree to meet him in person.

Curiosity got the better of me, and I agreed to meet him at my office the following day.

Mr. Luker was, in every way, a lesser being compared to the Indian. He was vulgar, unattractive, cringing, and dull—too unremarkable to warrant much attention here. The essence of what he had to say was this:

The day before my encounter with the Indian, Mr. Luker had received a visit from him. Despite the Indian’s European disguise, Luker recognized him as the leader of the three men who had previously harassed him outside his home, forcing him to consult a magistrate. This realization sent him into a panic, and he feared he was in the presence of one of the men who had blindfolded, gagged, and robbed him of his banker’s receipt. Overwhelmed with terror, he believed his end was near.

Throughout their meeting, the Indian maintained the guise of a stranger. He presented the same little casket and made the same request for a loan that he later made to me. Eager to rid himself of the visitor, Mr. Luker quickly claimed he had no money. The Indian then asked who would be the best and safest person to approach for the loan. In his state of fear, Luker blurted out my name, the first one that came to mind. “I was sweating like crazy, sir,” he admitted. “I didn’t know what I was saying. I hope you can forgive me, Mr. Bruff, considering how truly terrified I was.”

I let him off the hook, eager to be rid of him. Before he left, I had one last question.

“Did the Indian say anything noteworthy when he left your house?”

“Yes! He asked me the same question at parting that he asked you, and of course, I gave him the same answer.”

What did it mean? Mr. Luker’s explanation didn’t help me at all in figuring it out. My own attempts to understand the situation fell short, leaving me frustrated. I had a dinner engagement that evening, and as I made my way upstairs, my mood was far from cheerful. I had no idea that the path to my dressing room and the path to the truth were, on this occasion, one and the same.