“Seymour,” she said to me, in a distinctly frightened tone, “I have treated you harshly at times, I know, and I am very sorry for it.  But I want you to help me in a most painful difficulty.  The police are quite right as to the charge of conspiracy; that designing little minx, White Heather, or Mrs. David Granton, or whatever else we’re to call her, ought certainly to be prosecuted—­and sent to prison, too—­and have her absurd head of hair cut short and combed straight for her.  But—­and you will help me here, I’m sure, dear Seymour—­I cannot allow them to arrest my Césarine.  I don’t pretend to say Césarine isn’t guilty; the girl has behaved most ungratefully to me.  She has robbed me right and left, and deceived me without compunction.  Still—­I put it to you as a married man—­can any woman afford to go into the witness-box, to be cross-examined and teased by her own maid, or by a brute of a barrister on her maid’s information?  I assure you, Seymour, the thing’s not to be dreamt of.  There are details of a lady’s life—­known only to her maid—­which cannot be made public.  Explain as much of this as you think well to Charles, and make him understand that if he insists upon arresting Césarine, I shall go into the box—­and swear my head off to prevent any one of the gang from being convicted.  I have told Césarine as much; I have promised to help her:  I have explained that I am her friend, and that if she’ll stand by me, I’ll stand by her, and by this hateful young man of hers.”

I saw in a moment how things went.  Neither Charles nor Amelia could face cross-examination on the subject of one of Colonel Clay’s accomplices.  No doubt, in Amelia’s case, it was merely a question of rouge and hair-dye; but what woman would not sooner confess to a forgery or a murder than to those toilet secrets?

I returned to Charles, therefore, and spent half an hour in composing, as well as I might, these little domestic difficulties.  In the end, it was arranged that if Charles did his best to protect Césarine from arrest, Amelia would consent to do her best in return on behalf of Madame Picardet.

We had next the police to tackle—­a more difficult business.  Still, even they were reasonable.  They had caught Colonel Clay, they believed, but their chance of convicting him depended entirely upon Charles’s identification, with mine to back it.  The more they urged the necessity of arresting the female confederates, however, the more stoutly did Charles declare that for his part he could by no means make sure of Colonel Clay himself, while he utterly declined to give evidence of any sort against either of the women.  It was a difficult case, he said, and he felt far from confident even about the man.  If his decision faltered, and he failed to identify, the case was closed; no jury could convict with nothing to convict upon.

At last the police gave way.  No other course was open to them.  They had made an important capture; but they saw that everything depended upon securing their witnesses, and the witnesses, if interfered with, were likely to swear to absolutely nothing.