Faradeane turned away with a spasm of disgust.
“What hold had she on you?” he demanded.
Bartley Bradstone shot a suspicious, cunning glance at him.
“She—she wanted me to marry her,” he said, in a low voice.
Faradeane sighed.
“You—you cur!” he said, not angrily, but with infinite scorn.
“When—when she found I was married already she threatened to—to go then and there to the Grange and blare out a scandal before—before Olivia.”
Faradeane winced as the beloved name left the man’s lips.
“And I—I couldn’t stand it! It drove me mad! That’s it! I was mad—mad! But I didn’t mean to shoot her, only to frighten her.”
Faradeane got as far from him as the small cell would permit, and, looking down at him, said, slowly and sternly: