There were no tears in Olivia’s eyes. Hot and brilliant, they looked out at the window, the lines graven deep in her white forehead.
“There is some mystery,” she said in a low voice. “I know that he did not do it.”
“Who did, miss?” sobbed Bessie. “Some one did it—some one they can’t find; and everybody knowing Mr. Faradeane was in the wood, and that the pistol was his, will believe him guilty. Why, oh, why doesn’t he speak out?”
Olivia was silent for a moment, then she raised herself on her elbow.
“Where is he?” she asked.
“In Wainford jail, miss,” replied Bessie, piteously. “He has been there ever since—ever since the day of the wedding——”
“And the murder!” breathed Olivia. “He is shut up there with no friend to help him, while the guilty man is free!” Her eyes flashed, and she drew a long breath of repressed and passionate indignation. “Is there no one to help him—no one trying to save him?”
Bessie shook her head.
“I don’t know, miss. They say that no one can help him, unless he will help himself.”
Olivia thought for a moment, then she sat up with a strange expression of resolution in her eyes.