“Just so, sir,” remarked Mr. McAndrew. “But it’s strange he doesn’t say so, isn’t it? And Mrs. Bradstone is still in danger, sir?” he broke off, respectfully.
“Yes, yes,” assented Bartley Bradstone, with a heavy sigh and an anxious, troubled look, and he moved down the corridor to the door where a closed carriage and pair stood waiting. “Oh, stop!” he said, with his hand on the door and looking back at the detective. “I—I forgot. Mr. Vanley asked me to say that if there was anything that could be done for the—the prisoner, he should like to do it. I suppose there will be lawyers and—a counsel. Just see to it, will you?”
Mr. McAndrew regarded him with the same stolid stare.
“I’m afraid I can’t interfere, sir,” he said, thoughtfully. “You see, I’m for the prosecution; at least, I’m for the truth!”
Bartley Bradstone shot a glance at him; but the man’s face was so wooden that it robbed the words of any significance.
“But I’ll put Mr. Faradeane in the way he should go—I can do that without going beyond my duty, though whether he’ll pay any attention to my advice is quite another thing.”
Bartley Bradstone got into the carriage, and, as the footman in the gorgeous Maples livery closed the door, Bradstone leaned forward.
“Anything discovered about the woman—what’s her name?—Bella?” he asked.
Mr. McAndrew shrugged his shoulders.
“Nothing of any consequence, sir,” he replied.