“And no message to—Mrs. Bradstone, sir?” inquired Mr. McAndrew, softly, and with the deepest respect.
For a moment Faradeane’s face changed color, then he said, almost haughtily:
“What message should I have to send to that lady?”
Mr. McAndrew inclined his head.
“Very good, sir,” he said. “I wish you good-day.” He tapped at the door, and as the warder opened it for him he looked over his shoulder. “I forgot to say that Mr. Bradstone asked me if there was anything he could do for you, Mr. Faradeane.”
Faradeane’s face did not move a muscle.
“Thank him; no,” he replied, firmly.
Mr. McAndrew paused outside the closed door, with his hand to his mouth, looking hard at the stone floor; then he went out. As he was passing the office the governor tapped at the window.
“Well?” he said, with an affectation of carelessness.
“It isn’t well; it’s bad, colonel,” replied Mr. McAndrew, grimly, and with just a shade of annoyance and disappointment. “Your friend—Mr. Faradeane, the prisoner—is resolved upon giving himself away, as the Americans say, and I’m afraid he’ll be sorry when it’s too late.”