“Good,” said Mr. Edgar, promptly. “I call Mrs. Bradstone.”
A thrill ran through the court; and suddenly Faradeane leaned forward and laid his hand on Mr. Edgar’s shoulder.
“No!” he said, sternly.
Mr. Edgar looked up at him with respectful firmness.
“Pardon me, my lord,” he said. “Mrs. Bradstone, please!”
Olivia rose trembling, and now, for the moment, her pale face was crimson. Bertie sprang forward and gave her his arm, and she walked into the box. And now, for the first time, the calm demeanor which the prisoner had maintained with apparently no effort, broke down. He was seen to tremble, and his hands clasped and unclasped each other on the edge of the dock.
As she passed, she raised her eyes to his, and looked at him with such a steadfast gaze of pity and trust and devotion, that his own gaze faltered, and, with an almost audible groan for the suffering she was about to endure, he turned his head away.
She grasped the front of the box tightly; Bertie stood close beside her, her father just below her. Mr. Edgar arranged his notes to give her a few moments to prepare herself, then he said:
“Mrs. Bradstone, I deeply regret having to call you, and believe me I will cause you as little pain as possible, and will detain you not one moment longer than I am obliged. You know Lord Clydesfold—that is, Mr. Faradeane?”
“Yes,” came from her pale lips.