“Faradeane!” exclaimed the squire. “What is this?” and he went toward him agitatedly.
If Faradeane intended responding, the constable prevented him. Almost stepping in between him and the squire, he said, respectfully enough, but firmly:
“Beg pardon, squire; but I caution Mr. Faradeane. I’ve done so already, as he’ll bear witness. I’ve told him that anything he says may be used against him.”
There was a movement of suppressed excitement. Faradeane stood perfectly silent and calm.
“You have cautioned Mr. Faradeane!” said Lord Carfield. “Do you mean to say——”
He stopped, unable to form the question.
The constable nodded grimly.
“Yes, my lord. I’m very sorry to have to do it, but it’s my duty to charge Mr. Faradeane with willful murder.”
The crowd of guests exchanged murmurs and glances of amazement, and in the midst of the excitement Olivia glided down the stairs and stood beside her father. She clung to his arm, but did not remove her eyes from the face of the accused.
The last person who was expected to speak broke the silence. It was Mr. Bartley Bradstone. In moments of great peril, sometimes, your thorough-paced coward is stung into something that has, at any rate, the appearance of courage.