They got out, and, without knocking, Olivia opened the office door.
The colonel looked up from the desk at which he was writing, and stared speechlessly for a moment at the vision of fragile loveliness. Then he sprang to his feet and came round to her.
“Great Heaven, Miss Olivia! I beg pardon—Mrs. Bradstone. You here! What is the matter? Where is the squire?” and as he held her hand he tried to lead her gently to a chair; but Olivia stood firm, and with her thin fingers twining round his, looked at him steadily, though her heart was beating wildly, and the color coming and going in her face.
“Nothing has happened, dear Colonel Summerford, and my father is not here. I am alone, excepting for my maid. I have come to ask a great favor of you. You will not refuse me?”
“A favor?” echoed the colonel; “my dear young lady! Come out of the draught, for Heaven’s sake!” he broke off, for she looked so wan and slight that it seemed to him as if a breath of air would waft her away. “I did not know you were well enough to be out. Are you? And to come here! What is it you want me to do? Of course I will not refuse you; you know that.”
“Yes, I know that,” she murmured, in the sweet voice which had never failed yet to reach men’s hearts. “I want you to let me see Mr. Faradeane.”
The colonel literally gasped for breath.
“To—to see the prisoner—Mr. Faradeane!” he exclaimed under his breath. “My dear, dear girl, you cannot be serious.”
She forced a smile.
“Do not be alarmed, Colonel Summerford. I am quite sensible now, and not delirious. And I do want to see Mr. Faradeane.”