Bartley Bradstone pushed his way into the library.
He was very white, but calmer and more self-possessed than he had been all day notwithstanding that his bride had been carried from him lifeless.
“This—this is all nonsense, of course,” he said, addressing no one in particular. “Faradeane can explain it, if he likes, I’m sure. I don’t know why on earth he don’t. But, anyway, I’ll be bail for him, Lord Carfield.”
There was a murmur of approval, for not one of the spectators who looked in the face of the accused believed in the possibility of his guilt.
“Bail is not granted in cases of—in cases of this kind,” said Lord Carfield, in a low voice, and he sat down and wrote out the warrant. “If—if you choose to confine Mr. Faradeane in his own house——”
The constable shook his head.
“I couldn’t take that responsibility, my lord,” he said, respectfully. “The gentleman will have to go to the lockup.”
“I am quite ready,” said Faradeane, again. “Do not make any exception in my favor.”
“Once more, Faradeane,” said Lord Carfield, rising and stretching out his hands, “will you not explain?”
He shook his head.