As we emerged into the drawing-room, Amelia beckoned me aside
towards her boudoir for a moment.
"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 Cesarine. I don't pretend
to say Cesarine 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
Cesarine, I shall go into the box--and swear my head off to prevent
any one of the gang from being convicted.
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