“Take that paper, and write as I tell you.”
Bartley Bradstone looked up fearfully.
“What are you going to get me to do?” he whined. “Don’t—don’t be hard on me for—for her sake.”
Faradeane pointed to the paper.
“Let there be as few words as possible between us, if you please. Write as I tell you. Refuse, and I give you up here and now.”
Trembling and shaking, the wretched man clutched the paper.
I, Bartley Bradstone, shot the woman called Bella-Bella in Harkwood Spinney.
“Sign it.”
Bradstone lifted his ashen face.
“Good God! You—you seem to mean to hang me, after all,” he gasped. “After all your fine talk of saving her from trouble——”