“Silence!” said Faradeane, sternly. “Do as I bid you. There is no time for hesitation; the warder will be here in a very few minutes. If that is not written and you have not solemnly pledged yourself to carry out my scheme for your safety—for your safety, do you hear?—-I send for Colonel Summerford and denounce you.”
With a groan, Bartley Bradstone wrote the short confession. It was so feeble a scrawl, so twisted and broken as to be almost illegible.
Faradeane took it—and as he did so the real criminal noticed that he touched it as one touches some noxious thing—then folded it and put it in an envelope.
“Address it to Miss Van—to your wife,” he said, grimly.
Bartley Bradstone started and clutched at the table.
“To Olivia! To her!” he gasped. “Is that your game? You—you know what she’d do. You know she’d hang me twice over, with joy, to save you.”
Faradeane raised his hand, but let it fall to his side.
“Do not try me too hard,” he said, hoarsely. “Address it.”
With another groan, Bartley Bradstone obeyed. Faradeane took a sheet of paper from his breast-pocket and placed it before him.
Bartley Bradstone read it and uttered an exclamation, and staggered to his feet; then sank down again, as if too weak to stand. This is what Faradeane had written: