As the door closed with a heavy clang, Olivia started and turned with a little cry of agony and despair toward the cell.
Then Bessie drew her aside. The colonel put them in the brougham, and Olivia sank back, white and exhausted; but there were no tears in her eyes, though Bessie cried bitterly.
When they got home Olivia made her way upstairs, and, throwing herself down on her knees beside the bed, hid her face in her hands, one thought taking possession of her to the exclusion of all else. She forgot that she was married to Bartley Bradstone, forgot that in the bosom of her wedding-dress was the sum for which she had sold herself, forgot even her father and his great need. All she remembered was that Harold Faradeane lay in prison charged with the awful crime of murder; and that, unless some hand was stretched forth to save him, his days were numbered.
CHAPTER XXX.
“QUITS.”
That afternoon a policeman walked up to The Maples and inquired for Mr. Bradstone. That gentleman was standing at the window, his hands thrust in his pockets, his head sunk on his breast, and the sight of the constable sent the blood rushing through his head, and made him clutch at the window-sill with a gasp of dread.
“A letter, sir, from the prisoner,” said the man.
“Eh? Oh, yes, certainly,” stammered Bartley Bradstone; and he took the note to the other end of the room.
It was only one line.
I wish to see you.—F.
Bartley Bradstone stared at it, and bit at his lips nervously.