Bessie’s lips quivered and her eyes filled.
“They have sent him for trial, miss,” she replied in a low voice.
Olivia looked at her steadily, and her breath came in quick little pants.
“Sent him for trial? They think he is guilty?” she said. “He, who would not hurt a dog, shoot a helpless woman! Why should he do it? Who was she?”
Bessie shook her head.
“No one knows, miss. Mr. Faradeane will not say anything, and—and that is why they say he did it. If he would only speak and explain, then people would believe him.”
Olivia remained silent for a few moments, thinking deeply, her hands tightly clasped.
“And he will say nothing?” she inquired in a low voice.
“Nothing, miss; not a word!” said Bessie, the tears rolling down her cheeks; “and they all say—the servants in the hall—that the detective from London”—Olivia started and looked at her—“says that if he will not explain he—he will——”
She stopped with a choking little sob.