Bartley Bradstone passed his hand across his lips.
“Well, I—I must do it. You’re right; I—I don’t feel safe. I’m better out of the way. As for Olivia; she—she never cared for me, and since this—this affair I’ve—I’ve wished I hadn’t married her. When are you going to give her that letter?” he asked, with a suspicious glance at it.
“Now,” said Faradeane. “Did you think it was a trap I had laid for you? Call the warder.”
Bartley Bradstone got up, but sank down again.
“I’m all to pieces,” he groaned.
Faradeane went to the door and knocked.
“Mr. Bradstone wishes this letter sent to Mrs. Bradstone,” he said.
“Very good, sir,” said the warder; and he took it.
Bradstone listened to his heavy step as it clanged along the stone corridor. Then he got up and shook himself like a man trying to recover from a bad dream.
“I’ll go now,” he said. “There’ll be just time to catch the up-train. Is—is there anything I can do for you?” he added, lifting his bloodshot, wavering eyes shamefacedly.