“To Wainford, sir,” replied the constable. “You’ll be more comfortable in the regular prison there than in the Hawkwood lockup.”
“Thank you,” said Faradeane. “That is thoughtful of you.”
The man eyed him with a strange expression.
“Come, sir,” he said, bending forward. “You know, and I know, that you didn’t do this. Why not up and out with the truth? If you didn’t like to do it before all these people, why not tell me? I know it’s not quite regular, but I’ll be hanged if I uses a word against you!”
Faradeane shook his head.
“You mean well,” he said, wearily. “I appreciate and understand your kindness, my good fellow; but you cannot help me. You must do your duty.”
“Yes, I must do that,” said the man, gravely. “But every minute you let this charge hang over you, settles it more firmly down, and—there’s danger in it, sir.”
“Yes, I know that,” assented Faradeane, calmly.
They reached Wainford, and found the prison officials prepared for them by telegraph.
The governor, as he read the warrant, glanced once or twice at the pale face.