Your husband has left England forever. If, at any time, under any pretence, he should break the vow he has made to me, and attempt to claim you, open the enclosed envelope. While he refrains from troubling you, keep it sacred and inviolate, and if he should die, leaving you unmolested, burn it. You have spoken of our friendship: in the name of that friendship, with all the earnestness of a man over whom hangs the shadow of death, I leave you this charge. My honor is in your hands.
Harold Faradeane.
He took the paper from Bartley Bradstone’s trembling hands, and, inclosing it, together with the confession, in an envelope, addressed it in firm, steady writing to Olivia.
Bartley Bradstone sat staring at the floor like a man dazed.
Faradeane waited in silence for a moment or two, then he said:
“You will leave England to-night.”
“To-night?” repeated Bartley Bradstone, dully.
“Yes, there is no time to lose. Strange as it may seem to you, there may be some who will not believe me guilty.”
“She—for one,” muttered Bradstone between his teeth.
“Let suspicion be once aroused, and the truth may be discovered. You are a business man; give business as an excuse for your sudden departure. Go on the Continent; there are still some remote spots where you will be safe from the English law. Find one—and stay there. Remember,” he spoke slowly and distinctly, “if you are in any rash moment tempted to break your word to me, and claim as your wife the woman upon whom you have fastened your name, that she holds your life in her hands! That is all I have to say to you,” he added, significantly.