“Yes, yes!” said Faradeane, quickly and anxiously, looking back over his shoulder. “Come at once, please.”
The crowd closed up after him, and the shouting and cheering and groaning announced the departure of the fly.
Bartley Bradstone stood in the corridor biting his lip, and looking after the prisoner in a dull, vacant fashion, and had quite forgotten Mr. McAndrew until that gentleman’s voice sounded at his elbow.
“Carrying it with a high hand, isn’t he, Mr. Bradstone?”
Bartley Bradstone started.
“Eh? Y—es, yes! You think that—that there isn’t any chance for him? You think he’s guilty still?”
The detective looked at him with a sudden and utterly expressionless stare.
“I never give an opinion myself, sir,” he said. “Never. It’s unprofessional. But I think the jury, when he goes for trial, will think him guilty.”
A strange expression, it almost seemed like relief, shot across Bartley Bradstone’s face, but it was gone in an instant, and, with a shake of his head, he said:
“They’ll be a parcel of fools, then. He’s no more guilty than I am.”