He took it and looked at it, and then at Faradeane. Every eye was fastened on the tiny toy. “Well? What has this to do with Mr. Faradeane?” demanded Lord Carfield. “Yes, what has it to do----” echoed Bartley Bradstone, indignantly. The constable glanced at him. “If the squire will please to look at the pistol, he’ll see why I arrested the gentleman,” he said, stubbornly. The squire held the revolver to the light, looked at it, and let it drop. It fell upon the tiled hall with an ominous clang, and Lord Carfield stooped and picked it up. “That revolver has got Mr. Faradeane’s name engraved on it,” said the constable. “I asked him to explain--he’ll bear me out, squire--how it came there, just close to the body, and he wouldn’t tell me. There wasn’t nothing for it but for me to do my duty, and I did it. I told Mr. Faradeane he’d better come with me to you and my lord, the magistrates, and I advised him to clear the matter up, squire. Perhaps he’ll explain what he was doing there, and how his revolver happened to be lying beside the woman as was shot, my lord.” Lord Carfield nodded. “You did quite right,” he said. “Mr. Faradeane will explain, of course,” and he looked at him. Every eye was fixed on him, every ear strained for his response to this appeal. Slowly and distinctly came the accused man’s reply: “I have nothing to say.” A thrill ran through the listening and watching crowd. Charged with a cruel murder, and--nothing to say! A half-articulate groan burst from the squire’s lips. “Faradeane!” he made a movement toward him. “You--you have nothing to say! No answer! Impossible!” Faradeane’s grave, sad eyes met his anxious ones steadily. “What the constable says is true,” he said, slowly. “I have nothing to add to it--nothing to explain.” Insensibly--but how significantly!--the constable drew closer to him. “That’s what he said over and over again, squire. I couldn’t persuade him into anything else. It’s my duty to ask for a warrant----” “No! no! Impossible!” said the squire, hoarsely. “A warrant on the charge of willful murder,” said the constable, firmly, but respectfully. As the words rang in the ears of the horrified group, Olivia left her father’s side, and approached Faradeane. For a moment she stood speechless, her dilated eyes fixed on his face, her lips moving, her hand pressed to her heart. He did not flinch; but there was no assurance of his innocence in his eyes, nothing but a sad impassiveness. “Why--why do you not tell them?” broke from her, at last. “Why do you not tell them that you are--innocent?” and she caught his arm and clung to it. “You are innocent! Tell them so! Tell them so!” It was an awful moment. It was an ordeal compared with which the torture of the rack is as nothing. Bartley Bradstone’s face blanched, and he made a slight movement; then, as Faradeane raised his eyes, he fell back, for he read in them the assurance that his substitute would remain firm.