Bradstone obeyed with the prompt obedience of a dog, and stood shuddering and shivering, wiping his face and lips. Faradeane thought for a moment. “Go to The Maples and change your clothes, and stay there.” Bartley Bradstone looked at him. “And stay there,” said Faradeane, slowly and sternly. “On one condition only will I attempt to save you. You can guess what it is.” The red of shame, perhaps of remorse, flickered on his pallid lips. “You--you mean that--that I’m not to go near her!” Faradeane made a gesture of assent. “You know it is that,” he said, in a low voice. “Attempt to claim her as your wife”--he seemed scarcely able to go on--“and I denounce you! That is my condition; do you accept it? Quick!” “I accept, I accept,” panted Bradstone. “I agree to anything. I swear”--he uttered a frightful oath--“I’ll do anything, everything you tell me,” he whined. Faradeane averted his face with disgust and loathing. “Your life depends upon it,” he said. “Go now, and say nothing to any one. Did any one see you on your way here?” “No, no!” “Answer no questions; keep silence. Now go,” and he pointed toward the drive. Bartley Bradstone took a step, then with a shudder he looked at the still form at Faradeane’s feet. “There--there’s something of mine there,” he said, hoarsely. “If--if it’s found I’m--I’m lost.” “Take it,” responded Faradeane, grimly. He bent down, then shrank back, shuddering. “I--I can’t!” he gasped. “I can’t touch her! It’s--it’s a watch and my cigar case----” Faradeane bent down and reverently took the things from the dead woman’s pocket, and dropped them at Bradstone’s feet. “Go, quick!” he said. Bradstone snatched at the things, and turned; then he stopped and looked over his shoulder. “What--what are you going to do?” he asked, hoarsely. “I--I haven’t thanked you; but by Heaven----” “What I am going to do rests with me,” came the stern response. “Let it be what it may, it is not for your sake, but for her sake!” He raised his hand again, and Bartley Bradstone, with one last parting glance at the woman he had murdered, staggered from the glade. Faradeane leaned against a tree, and hid his face in his hands, and thought. And, incredible as it may seem, it was not of the woman who had ruined his life, and who now lay dead at his feet, not of the awful peril in which he had placed himself in shielding the murderer, not of Bartley Bradstone; it was upon Olivia his mind was fixed. Surely never was a woman placed in a more awful, a more heartrending position. The wife of a scoundrel who had stained his hands with blood upon her wedding day!