“I have nothing to say,” said the calm, sad voice; “I am quite ready,” and he turned his face away from her. Her hand lingered on his arm in an imploring clasp for a moment, then, without a cry, she swayed slightly and fell to the ground. Faradeane bent down to raise her, but Bradstone and the squire--half a dozen of the horrified crowd, indeed--sprang forward, and he drew back with a sigh. “For God’s sake take me away!” he said to the constable, hoarsely. “I--I cannot bear much more!” Lord Carfield signed to the constable to go into the library, and Faradeane followed, stopping for a second to glance back as they carried Olivia up the stairs, with a yearning and agonized expression in his eyes. Bartley Bradstone pushed his way into the library. He was very white, but calmer and more self-possessed than he had been all day notwithstanding that his bride had been carried from him lifeless. “This--this is all nonsense, of course,” he said, addressing no one in particular. “Faradeane can explain it, if he likes, I’m sure. I don’t know why on earth he don’t. But, anyway, I’ll be bail for him, Lord Carfield.” There was a murmur of approval, for not one of the spectators who looked in the face of the accused believed in the possibility of his guilt. “Bail is not granted in cases of--in cases of this kind,” said Lord Carfield, in a low voice, and he sat down and wrote out the warrant. “If--if you choose to confine Mr. Faradeane in his own house----” The constable shook his head. “I couldn’t take that responsibility, my lord,” he said, respectfully. “The gentleman will have to go to the lockup.” “I am quite ready,” said Faradeane, again. “Do not make any exception in my favor.” “Once more, Faradeane,” said Lord Carfield, rising and stretching out his hands, “will you not explain?” He shook his head. “I have nothing to explain, my lord. Ah”--and his voice almost broke--“don’t think me ungrateful for your consideration! If you knew----” He stopped and turned aside. Lord Carfield sank into the chair, and covered his eyes with his hands, and the constable retired with his prisoner. At sight of them the crowd, which had been impatiently waiting at the front, set up a roar; but as Faradeane looked down at them, something in his face silenced them, and a man’s voice cried out: “Shame on ye! What! will ye judge a man guilty ’fore he’s tried?” It was Alford, and he forced himself to the front, and made a lane through the mob by the simple expedient of swinging his huge arm. “Don’t be cast down, sir. We knows you’re innocent, right enough; but most of us have had too much liquor. Now, make way there!” “Thank you, Alford,” said Faradeane, simply, and the three passed through the crowd, which closed up behind them, and followed them to the end of the drive. The constable had taken the precaution to order a carriage to await them at this point, and he and Faradeane got in, and were driven sharply away.