Then I remembered at once where it was that I had seen him—­at the broker’s in the city, before we sailed for America.

“What Christian name?” I asked.

Charles reflected a moment.  “The same as the one in the note we got with the dust-coat,” he answered, at last.  “The man is Paul Finglemore!”

“You will arrest him?” I asked.

“Can I, on this evidence?”

“We might bring it home to him.”

Charles mused for a moment.  “We shall have nothing against him,” he said slowly, “except in so far as we can swear to his identity.  And that may be difficult.”

Just at that moment the footman brought in tea.  Charles wondered apparently whether the man, who had been with us at Seldon when Colonel Clay was David Granton, would recollect the face or recognise having seen it.  “Look here, Dudley,” he said, holding up the water-colour, “do you know that person?”

Dudley gazed at it a moment.  “Certainly, sir,” he answered briskly.

“Who is it?” Amelia asked.  We expected him to answer, “Count von Lebenstein,” or “Mr. Granton,” or “Medhurst.”

Instead of that, he replied, to our utter surprise, “That’s Césarine’s young man, my lady.”

“Césarine’s young man?” Amelia repeated, taken aback.  “Oh, Dudley, surely, you must be mistaken!”

“No, my lady,” Dudley replied, in a tone of conviction.  “He comes to see her quite reg’lar; he have come to see her, off and on, from time to time, ever since I’ve been in Sir Charles’s service.”

“When will he be coming again?” Charles asked, breathless.

“He’s downstairs now, sir,” Dudley answered, unaware of the bombshell he was flinging into the midst of a respectable family.

Charles rose excitedly, and put his back against the door.  “Secure that man,” he said to me sharply, pointing with his finger.

“What man?” I asked, amazed.  “Colonel Clay?  The young man who’s downstairs now with Césarine?”

“No,” Charles answered, with decision; “Dudley!”

I laid my hand on the footman’s shoulder, not understanding what Charles meant.  Dudley, terrified, drew back, and would have rushed from the room; but Charles, with his back against the door, prevented him.

“I—­I’ve done nothing to be arrested, Sir Charles,” Dudley cried, in abject terror, looking appealingly at Amelia.  “It—­it wasn’t me as cheated you.”  And he certainly didn’t look it.

“I daresay not,” Charles answered.  “But you don’t leave this room till Colonel Clay is in custody.  No, Amelia, no; it’s no use your speaking to me.  What he says is true.  I see it all now.  This villain and Césarine have long been accomplices!  The man’s downstairs with her now.  If we let Dudley quit the room he’ll go down and tell them; and before we know where we are, that slippery eel will have wriggled through our fingers, as he always wriggles.  He is Paul Finglemore; he is Césarine’s young man; and unless we arrest him now, without one minute’s delay, he’ll be off to Madrid or St. Petersburg by this evening!”