“Just say all right, will you?” he said to the policeman. “You—you can get something to drink in the servants’ hall. Er—er—by the way, is Mr. McAndrew back yet?”
“No, sir,” replied the man. “Not yet, sir. Rather strange his keeping away so long; but I suppose he’s getting evidence in London. There’s never any knowing what these big detectives are after.”
When the policeman had gone, Bartley Bradstone dropped into a chair and bit his nails, glancing now and again at the peremptory summons.
“He—he orders me about like a dog,” he muttered, with an oath. “Just like a dog! But I’ve got to go. Yes, though I’d rather give a thousand pounds than face him, I’ve got to go. He’s got me, curse him! Got me tight! If there was any way out of it, any chance——”
He got up with a groan, and went to the sideboard for the familiar brandy, then put on his hat, and with as calm a countenance as he could command, walked down to the prison.
Faradeane was pacing to and fro with a steady, thoughtful stride; and, as he faced his visitor, Bartley Bradstone started at the change which the close confinement—and the ordeal of Olivia’s visit, though Bartley did not know that—had worked in the handsome face and stalwart figure.
“You—you sent for me,” he said, unsteadily, and carefully avoiding Faradeane’s stern, searching eyes.
“Yes; you were wise to come.”
“Of course I should come,” mumbled Bradstone. “If there is anything I can do—God knows I’m wretched and miserable enough,” he broke off with a whine. “I feel as if I could shoot myself.”
“I dare say,” said Faradeane, not contemptuously, but with simple assent more biting than the most polished scorn. “But you cannot do that; it would reveal the truth, and cover her with the shame from which I—and you—have resolved to shield her at all cost. At all cost, do you hear me?”