ce by that arch Mme. Picardet, or that
transparently simple little minx, Mrs. Granton. She's the cleverest
girl I ever met in my life, that hussy, whatever we're to call her.
She's a different person each time; and each time, hang it all, I
lose my heart afresh to that different person."

I glanced round to make sure Amelia was well out of earshot.

"No, Sey," my respected connection went on, after another long
pause, sipping his coffee pensively, "I feel I must be aided in this
superhuman task by a professional unraveller of cunning disguises. I
shall go to Marvillier's to-morrow--fortunate man, Marvillier--and
ask him to supply me with a really good 'tec, who will stop in the
house and keep an eye upon every living soul that comes near me.
He shall scan each nose, each eye, each wig, each whisker. He shall
be my watchful half, my unsleeping self; it shall be his business
to suspect all living men, all breathing women. The Archbishop of
Canterbury shall not escape for a moment his watchful regard; he
will take care that royal princesses don't collar the spoons or walk
off with the jewel-cases. He must see possible Colonel Clays in the
guard of every train and the parson of every parish; he must detect
the off-chance of a Mme. Picardet in every young girl that takes tea
with Amelia, every fat old lady that comes to call upon Isabel. Yes,
I have made my mind up. I shall go to-morrow and secure such a man
at once at Marvillier's."

"If you please, Sir Charles," Cesarine interposed, pushing her head
through the portiere, "her ladyship says, will you and Mr. Wentworth
remember that she goes out with you both this evening to Lady
Carisbrooke's?"

"Bless my soul," Charles cried, "so she does! And it's now past ten!
The carriage will be at the door for us in another five minutes!"

Next morning, accordingly, Charles drove round to Marvillier's. The
famous detective listened to his story with glistening eyes; then he
rubbed his hands and purred. "Colonel Clay!" he said; "Colonel Clay!
That's a very tough customer! The police of Europe are on the
look-out for Colonel Clay. He is wanted in London, in Paris, in
Berlin. It is le Colonel Caoutchouc here, le Colonel Caoutchouc
there; till one begins to ask, at last, IS there _any_ Colonel
Caoutchouc, or is it a convenient class name invented by the Force
to cover a gang of undiscovered sharpers? However, Sir Charles, we
will do our best. I will set on the track without delay th