In spite of Charles’s gibes, I flatter myself I do really understand the whole duty of a secretary.  It was clear from his voice he did not wish me to recognise her; which, as it happened, I did not.  “Certainly, it doesn’t resemble her, Charles,” I answered, with conviction in my voice.  “I should never have known her.”  But I did not add that I should no more have known Colonel Clay himself in his character of Paul Finglemore, or of Césarine’s young man, as that remark lay clearly outside my secretarial functions.

Still, it flitted across my mind at the time that the Seer had made some casual remarks at Nice about a letter in Charles’s pocket, presumably from Madame Picardet; and I reflected further that Madame Picardet in turn might possibly hold certain answers of Charles’s, couched in such terms as he might reasonably desire to conceal from Amelia.  Indeed, I must allow that under whatever disguise White Heather appeared to us, Charles was always that disguise’s devoted slave from the first moment he met it.  It occurred to me, therefore, that the clever little woman—­call her what you will—­might be the holder of more than one indiscreet communication.

“Under these circumstances,” Charles went on, in his austerest voice, “I cannot consent to be a party to the arrest of White Heather.  I—­I decline to identify her.  In point of fact”—­he grew more emphatic as he went on—­“I don’t think there is an atom of evidence of any sort against her.  Not,” he continued, after a pause, “that I wish in any degree to screen the guilty.  Césarine, now—­Césarine we have liked and trusted.  She has betrayed our trust.  She has sold us to this fellow.  I have no doubt at all that she gave him the diamonds from Amelia’s rivière; that she took us by arrangement to meet him at Schloss Lebenstein; that she opened and sent to him my letter to Lord Craig-Ellachie.  Therefore, I say, we ought to arrest Césarine.  But not White Heather—­not Jessie; not that pretty Mrs. Quackenboss.  Let the guilty suffer; why strike at the innocent—­or, at worst, the misguided?”

“Charles,” I exclaimed, with warmth, “your sentiments do you honour.  You are a man of feeling.  And White Heather, I allow, is pretty enough and clever enough to be forgiven anything.  You may rely upon my discretion.  I will swear through thick and thin that I do not recognise this woman as Madame Picardet.”

Charles clasped my hand in silence.  “Seymour,” he said, after a pause, with marked emotion, “I felt sure I could rely upon your—­er—­honour and integrity.  I have been rough upon you sometimes.  But I ask your forgiveness.  I see you understand the whole duties of your position.”

We went out again, better friends than we had been for months.  I hoped, indeed, this pleasant little incident might help to neutralise the possible ill-effects of the ten per cent disclosure, should Finglemore take it into his head to betray me to my employer.  As we emerged into the drawing-room, Amelia beckoned me aside towards her boudoir for a moment.