alarm.
He was there with the policeman, and he kindly allowed us to
make the first formal charge against him.

Of course, on Charles's sworn declaration and my own, the man was
at once remanded, bail being refused, owing both to the serious
nature of the charge and the slippery character of the prisoner's
antecedents. We went back to Mayfair--Charles, well satisfied that
the man he dreaded was under lock and key; myself, not too well
pleased to think that the man I dreaded was no longer at large, and
that the trifling little episode of the ten per cent commission
stood so near discovery.

Next day the police came round in force, and had a long consultation
with Charles and myself. They strongly urged that two other persons
at least should be included in the charge--Cesarine and the little
woman whom we had variously known as Madame Picardet, White Heather,
Mrs. David Granton, and Mrs. Elihu Quackenboss. If these accomplices
were arrested, they said, we could include conspiracy as one count
in the indictment, which gave us an extra chance of conviction. Now
they had got Colonel Clay, in fact, they naturally desired to keep
him, and also to indict with him as many as possible of his pals
and confederates.

Here, however, a difficulty arose. Charles called me aside with a
grave face into the library. "Seymour," he said, fixing me, "this
is a serious business. I will not lightly swear away any woman's
character. Colonel Clay himself--or, rather, Paul Finglemore--is an
abandoned rogue, whom I do not desire to screen in any degree. But
poor little Madame Picardet--she may be his lawful wife, and she
may have acted implicitly under his orders. Besides, I don't know
whether I could swear to her identity. Here's the photograph the
police bring of the woman they believe to be Colonel Clay's chief
female accomplice. Now, I ask you, does it in the least degree
resemble that clever and amusing and charming little creature,
who has so often deceived us?"

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 Cesarine's young man, as
_that_ remark lay