“You know it is that,” he said, in a low voice. “Attempt to claim her as your wife”—he seemed scarcely able to go on—“and I denounce you! That is my condition; do you accept it? Quick!”
“I accept, I accept,” panted Bradstone. “I agree to anything. I swear”—he uttered a frightful oath—“I’ll do anything, everything you tell me,” he whined.
Faradeane averted his face with disgust and loathing.
“Your life depends upon it,” he said. “Go now, and say nothing to any one. Did any one see you on your way here?”
“No, no!”
“Answer no questions; keep silence. Now go,” and he pointed toward the drive.
Bartley Bradstone took a step, then with a shudder he looked at the still form at Faradeane’s feet.
“There—there’s something of mine there,” he said, hoarsely. “If—if it’s found I’m—I’m lost.”
“Take it,” responded Faradeane, grimly.
He bent down, then shrank back, shuddering.