"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 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.
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