“It is my fault,” he said, huskily. “When they told me that they would take me to the Grange on my arrest I thought they would do so quietly, that she should not know—it is all my fault. Miss Vanley is a close and very dear friend of mine,” he added, as if to explain the emotion he suppressed with such difficulty.
“I understand,” said McAndrew, slowly. “It was the shock of seeing you in trouble and the story of the murder coming on the excitement of the wedding. You see, she wasn’t to know that you were innocent,” he added, easily and smoothly.
“No; she believed it, she believed it!” said Faradeane, unwarily, with a deep sigh.
The detective’s eyes twinkled, but only for a second.
“You see, things looked black against you. She wasn’t to know—no one was to know—that it would all come right at the trial.”
Faradeane turned and looked at him gravely, and with quick self-possession.
“Why do you say that?” he asked, calmly.
Mr. McAndrew shrugged his shoulders.
“Oh, I suppose you’ll explain everything then, sir?” he said. “What surprises me and everybody else is that you don’t do it now. But I dare say you have your reasons.”
“I have nothing to explain. I am almost tired of repeating it,” said Faradeane, and he turned to the window with a weary gesture.