“You will not tell her ladyship, I confess,” said Justine in a mysterious, whisper. “You will not what you English call ze peach.”
“Peach? not I, old girl. Come, you did know?”
Justine screwed up her eyes, and made her mouth a tight line as she laughed silently.
“Then you put Mr Melton up to the dodge?”
“Parole d’honneur, no, Milor Tom. Ze plot was hatch by Monsieur Shairlie himself. I say noding about ze hair come out,” she added to herself.
“Well, all I can say is, that Charley Melton was a plucky one. And you knew this all the time?”
“Yes, milor.”
“You’re a deep one, Justine.”
“I love ze secret, monsieur, and I cannot bear to see Miladi Maude soffaire.”
“So you helped, eh?”