“Nothing, except keep your promise,” replied Faradeane, slowly and wearily. “As you say, there is no time to lose. Good-day, and remember.”
Bartley Bradstone, with lowered head, went to the door and knocked at it feebly.
It was opened after a moment or two by another warder, and Bartley Bradstone passed out. He went slowly down the corridor into the stone hall, trying to drive away the hangdog expression which he knew was eloquent in every feature, and was passing the colonel’s room with as firm a step as he could manage when his heart leaped within his bosom, for Colonel Summerford called him.
He turned and entered the office, and the blood rushed like a torrent through his veins, for there in the colonel’s hand was the letter!
“Oh, Mr. Bradstone,” he said, “sorry to stop you; but this letter——”
“Yes,” said Bartley Bradstone, trying to speak and look indifferently, though there was the sound of singing in his ears, and he could scarcely keep his eyes from the letter.
“This letter for Mrs. Bradstone,” continued the colonel. “I was just sending some one with it; I don’t know whether you would like to take it.”
Danger makes a man, especially if he be a Bartley Bradstone, sharp. He was just on the point of holding out his hand for the letter, when there flashed upon him the thought that Faradeane would probably ask if it had been delivered, and, hearing that it had been consigned to Bradstone’s care, would make him account for it.
“I—I am going straight to The Maples, and from there on to London on important business, connected with my unfortunate friend, Mr. Faradeane,” he said, with a happy inspiration. “If you could kindly send it on by one of your men.”
“Certainly, certainly,” responded the colonel. “It was from no reluctance to do Mr. Faradeane a service, but in the desire to save time. I trust that you may be able to do some good for him, Mr. Bradstone. I don’t mind admitting that I’m deeply interested in the case, and more especially in him, prisoner as he is.”