CHAPTER III

by Wilkie Collins · 2026-03-31

I've been trying to figure out how to start this story properly, and I've gone about it in two ways. First, I scratched my head, which didn’t help at all. Second, I asked my daughter Penelope for her thoughts, and that led to a completely new idea.

Penelope suggested that I should write down what happened, day by day, starting from the moment we learned that Mr. Franklin Blake was coming to visit. It’s amazing how much your memory can bring back when you tie it to a specific date. The only challenge is recalling those dates in the first place. Penelope offered to help by looking through her diary, which she’s kept since her school days. When I suggested that she tell the story from her diary instead of me, she shot me a fierce look and blushed, insisting that her journal was for her eyes only and that no one else should ever read it. When I asked her what she meant by that, she simply said, “Fiddlesticks!” I replied, “Sweethearts.”

So, following Penelope's plan, I’ll start by mentioning that I was summoned one Wednesday morning to my lady’s sitting room on May 24, 1848.

“Gabriel,” my lady said, “I have news that will surprise you. Franklin Blake has returned from abroad. He’s been staying with his father in London, and he’s coming to visit us tomorrow and stay until next month to celebrate Rachel’s birthday.”

If I had a hat, I would have thrown it in the air out of sheer respect. I hadn’t seen Mr. Franklin since he was a boy living with us in this house. From what I remember, he was the sweetest boy who ever spun a top or broke a window. Miss Rachel, who was there when I made that remark, countered that she remembered him as the most dreadful tyrant who ever tortured a doll and the hardest taskmaster for an exhausted little girl in a string harness. “I burn with indignation and ache with fatigue,” Miss Rachel summed it up, “when I think of Franklin Blake.”

You might wonder how it was that Mr. Franklin spent all those years away from his own country. The answer is simple: his father was the unfortunate heir to a dukedom but couldn’t prove it.

Here’s the short version of how it all happened:

My lady’s eldest sister married the well-known Mr. Blake, famous for both his immense wealth and his lengthy legal battles. I couldn’t even begin to count how many years he spent in court trying to oust the Duke in possession and claim the title for himself. He filled countless lawyers’ pockets and stirred up disputes among otherwise peaceful people over whether he was right or wrong. His wife passed away, and two of his three children did as well, all before the courts finally decided to dismiss his case and stop taking his money. When it was all over and the Duke remained in possession, Mr. Blake figured the best way to get back at his country for how it had treated him was to deny it the privilege of educating his son. “How can I trust my native institutions,” he said, “after the way they’ve treated me?” On top of that, Mr. Blake disliked all boys, including his own, so it was clear how this would end. Young Franklin was taken from us in England and sent to institutions in Germany that his father could trust, while Mr. Blake stayed in England to improve his fellow countrymen in Parliament and to work on a statement about the Duke, which remains unfinished to this day.

There! Thank goodness that’s out of the way! Let’s not waste any more time on Mr. Blake, senior. Let him deal with the dukedom; you and I will focus on the Diamond.

And that brings us back to Mr. Franklin, who unwittingly brought that fateful jewel into our lives.

Our dear boy didn’t forget us after he went abroad. He wrote to us from time to time—sometimes to my lady, sometimes to Miss Rachel, and sometimes to me. Before he left, we had a little transaction where he borrowed a ball of string, a four-bladed knife, and seven shillings and sixpence—the color of which I haven’t seen since and don’t expect to again. Most of his letters to me were about borrowing more. However, I heard from my lady about his adventures abroad as he grew older and taller.

After he absorbed everything Germany had to offer, he moved on to France, and then to Italy. They turned him into a sort of universal genius, or so it seemed to me. He dabbled in writing, painting, singing, playing, and composing—borrowing, I suspect, in all those cases, just as he had borrowed from me. When he turned twenty-one, his mother’s fortune of seven hundred a year came to him, but it slipped through his fingers like water through a sieve. The more money he had, the more he wanted; there was a hole in Mr. Franklin’s pocket that nothing could patch.

Wherever he went, his lively and easygoing nature made him welcome. He lived here, there, and everywhere, often describing his address as “Post Office, Europe—to be left till called for.” Twice, he planned to return to England and see us, and twice (forgive my language), some unmentionable woman got in his way and stopped him. But his third attempt was successful, as you already know from what my lady told me. On Thursday, May 25th, we were finally going to see what our dear boy had become as a man. He came from good stock, had a brave heart, and was twenty-five years old, by our count. So, you know as much about Mr. Franklin Blake as I did before he arrived at our house.

That Thursday was one of those perfect summer days. My lady and Miss Rachel, not expecting Mr. Franklin until dinner, went out for lunch with some friends nearby.

Once they were gone, I took a moment to check the bedroom prepared for our guest and made sure everything was in order. As the butler and steward (a role I took on myself because it annoyed me to see anyone else with the key to the late Sir John’s cellar), I decided to bring up some of our famous Latour claret and let it warm in the summer air before dinner. Thinking I might enjoy the warm air too—since what’s good for old claret is also good for old age—I grabbed my beehive chair to head out to the back court when I was interrupted by a sound like soft drumming coming from the terrace in front of my lady’s house.

Curious, I walked around to the terrace and found three mahogany-skinned Indians in white linen outfits, looking up at the house.

As I looked closer, I saw they had small hand-drums slung in front of them. Behind them stood a delicate-looking English boy with light hair, carrying a bag. I guessed they were strolling conjurers, and the boy was probably carrying their props. One of the three, who spoke English and had the most refined manners, informed me that my assumption was correct. He asked for permission to perform his tricks in front of the lady of the house.

Now, I’m not a grumpy old man. I generally enjoy a bit of entertainment and am the last person to distrust someone just because their skin is a few shades darker than mine. But we all have our weaknesses, and mine, when I know a family silver basket is out on the pantry table, is to be instantly reminded of it by the sight of a well-mannered stranger. So, I told the Indian that the lady of the house was out and politely asked him and his companions to leave the premises. He responded with a graceful bow, and they departed.

I returned to my beehive chair, settled down on the sunny side of the court, and, if I’m honest, didn’t quite fall asleep but drifted into a state that was close enough.

I was jolted awake by my daughter Penelope rushing out to me as if the house were on fire. Can you guess what she wanted? She insisted that the three Indian jugglers be taken away immediately because they knew who was coming from London to visit us and intended to cause some trouble for Mr. Franklin Blake.

Hearing Mr. Franklin’s name snapped me to attention. I opened my eyes and asked my daughter to explain herself.

Penelope had just returned from our lodge, where she had been chatting with the lodge-keeper’s daughter. The two girls had seen the Indians leave after I had warned them to stay away, accompanied by a little boy. For reasons I couldn’t quite understand—other than the fact that he was pretty and delicate-looking—they decided the boy was being mistreated by the foreigners. So, they crept along the inner side of the hedge that separated us from the road, keeping an eye on what the foreigners were up to.

What they witnessed was nothing short of bizarre.

The three Indians first scanned the road, checking to see if anyone was around. Once they were satisfied they were alone, they turned to face our house and stared intently in that direction. They began to chatter and argue in their own language, looking at each other as if they were unsure about something. Then, they turned to the little English boy, as if they expected him to assist them. The chief Indian, who spoke English, commanded the boy, “Hold out your hand.”

Hearing those chilling words made Penelope feel as if her heart might leap out of her chest. I privately thought it might have been her corset constricting her. All I managed to say was, “You give me the creeps.” (Note: Women appreciate these little compliments.)

When the Indian said, “Hold out your hand,” the boy recoiled, shaking his head and saying he didn’t want to. The Indian, not unkindly, asked him if he would prefer to be sent back to London, left where they had found him—sleeping in an empty basket at a market, a hungry, ragged little boy. This seemed to resolve the issue. Reluctantly, the boy extended his hand. The Indian then pulled a bottle from his clothing and poured some black liquid, resembling ink, into the boy’s palm. After touching the boy’s head and making signs in the air, he instructed, “Look.”

The boy froze, standing like a statue, staring into the ink resting in his hand.

At that moment, I thought it was just a trick, a foolish waste of ink. I was starting to feel drowsy again when Penelope’s next words jolted me awake.

The Indians looked up and down the road once more, and then the chief Indian said to the boy, “See the English gentleman from foreign parts.”

The boy replied, “I see him.”

The Indian continued, “Is it on the road to this house, and no other, that the English gentleman will travel today?”

The boy confirmed, “It is on the road to this house, and no other, that the English gentleman will travel today.”

After a brief pause, the Indian asked, “Has the English gentleman got It about him?”

The boy hesitated before answering, “Yes.”

The Indian then asked his final question: “Will the English gentleman come here, as he has promised to come, at the close of day?”

The boy said, “I can’t tell.”

When the Indian inquired why, the boy replied, “I’m tired. The mist is rising in my head, and it confuses me. I can see no more today.”

With that, the questioning ended. The chief Indian spoke something in his language to the other two, gesturing towards the boy and the town where they were staying. Then, after making more signs over the boy’s head, he blew gently on his forehead, waking him with a start. After that, they continued on their way toward the town, and the girls never saw them again.

Most things have a lesson if you take the time to look for it. What was the lesson here?

To me, it seemed clear: First, the chief juggler had overheard the servants talking about Mr. Franklin’s arrival and saw an opportunity to make some money. Second, he and his companions planned to linger until they saw my lady return home, then come back to predict Mr. Franklin’s arrival through their tricks. Third, Penelope had caught them rehearsing their act, like actors preparing for a performance. Fourth, I should keep an eye on the plate-basket that evening. Fifth, Penelope should cool off and let me, her father, doze in the sun.

That seemed like the sensible interpretation. But if you know anything about young women, you won’t be surprised to hear that Penelope didn’t agree. To her, the lesson was serious. She reminded me of the Indian’s third question: “Has the English gentleman got It about him?”

“Oh, father!” she exclaimed, clasping her hands together. “Don’t joke about this. What does ‘It’ mean?”

“We’ll ask Mr. Franklin, my dear,” I said, “if you can wait until he arrives.” I winked to indicate I was joking, but Penelope took it to heart. Her seriousness amused me.

“What on earth would Mr. Franklin know about it?” I asked.

“Ask him,” Penelope replied. “And see if he thinks it’s a joke too.” With that, she left me.

Once she was gone, I decided I really would ask Mr. Franklin—mostly to ease Penelope’s mind. When I did speak to him later that day, you’ll find the details laid out properly in due course. But before I get ahead of myself and raise your hopes, I should warn you that our conversation about the jugglers was anything but humorous. To my surprise, Mr. Franklin, like Penelope, took the matter seriously. You’ll understand how seriously when I tell you that, in his view, “It” referred to the Moonstone.