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.
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