With flushed face and a forced laugh, he stepped forward.
“What nonsense is this?” he said, and he looked round with an air of impatience. “Mr. Faradeane charged with——It’s perfectly ridiculous!” and he laughed the forced laugh again. “Of course Mr. Faradeane can explain this—this absurd mistake. Better do it at once, and let the constable look for the right man, Faradeane.”
Faradeane just glanced at him; it looked a mere casual glance, but Bartley Bradstone read it as one of warning, and changed color slightly.
“Let—let us go into the library,” faltered Lord Carfield.
But the poor squire shook his head.
“There is no need for that,” he said, confidently. “As—as Mr. Bradstone says, Mr. Faradeane can explain this mistake at once, and in a few words,” and he looked at him with anxious appeal.
The constable waited a second. Every one seemed to wait while the clock ticked a full minute; then, as Faradeane remained silent, the constable, after a glance round, said:
“This is the case, squire; I was at the end of the lane when Browne ran up and told me to come with him into the wood—something had happened. I went, and I found the body of a young woman. She was quite dead—been shot. Close beside her stood Mr. Faradeane. I asked him what he knew about it, and he——” He paused a moment. “Well, squire, he refused to say anything!”
“Well!” said the squire, sharply. “That is not sufficient reason for charging Mr. Faradeane with—with——”
“No, squire,” assented the man, respectfully. “But while I was trying to persuade him to answer my questions and tell me what he knew, I saw something lying on the ground. It was this,” and he took the revolver from his pocket and handed it to the squire.