She sank back breathless and exhausted. The squire’s face went white, and he turned his head away. “She is wandering, poor girl,” said the doctor, with prompt presence of mind. “The shock of--of this terrible business coming so closely upon the excitement of the day has prostrated her. There has been a strain upon her mind for some time past. Don’t attach any value to her wild words, sir.” The squire drew back into the shadow and groaned: “My poor girl!” The doctor went round and, taking his arm, led him outside into the corridor. “Come, squire,” he said, gently but firmly, “you mustn’t give way; our only chance is to keep her free from excitement. If I can only keep her quiet she will be safe. If not--the first thing to do is to get rid of Mr. Bradstone.” “Get rid of him?” groaned the squire. “Yes,” he said; “his presence here in the house affects her; there is no accounting for the fancies of fever. Tell him how ill she is, and persuade him to go home, so that I may tell her he has gone. Leave the rest to me. I can manage very well with Bessie for nurse; and no one else must enter the room. You understand?” The squire grasped his hand and wrung it. “Yes, I understand,” he said, sorrowfully. “I will do as you say--if he will go.” “Tell him her life depends on it,” said the doctor, sternly. The squire went downstairs into the library, and Bartley Bradstone turned and faced him. His eyes were bloodshot, his lips hot and dry, and his hands plucked nervously at the edge of his coat. “Is--is she better?” he demanded, huskily. The squire shook his head. “My poor child is very ill, Bartley,” he said. “I fear there is--danger! You must go home!” “Go home?” repeated Bartley Bradstone, dully. “Yes,” said the squire; “the fact of your being here in the house agitates her--her mind is wandering. You will go home, will you not? I will send to you every hour.” To his surprise, Bartley Bradstone made no remonstrance. “I’ll go if you--if she wishes it,” he said, staring at the carpet like a man in a dream. “Yes, of course.” “I’ll tell them to get a carriage--and yet the noise. Will you walk?” “Yes,” he said; then he looked up with a sudden start of fear, and shuddered. “Yes, I’ll walk; but--but I’d like to have some one--one of the servants with me. I’m--I’m upset, you see,” he stammered, wiping the cold sweat from his brow. The squire looked at him and the decanter; but his gentle nature found some excuse for him. “My poor fellow!” he said. “But this will not help you,” and he pointed to the brandy. “No, I know; but--I’m upset, I’m dreadfully upset. This--this murder business----” The squire sighed deeply. “My brain is in a whirl. It was the sudden shock that struck my poor girl down. There is some hideous mistake, some dreadful mystery! It is impossible that he can be guilty!” “He--he didn’t deny it,” said Bartley Bradstone, sullenly. The squire looked at him with sad surprise. “You do not think him guilty?” he said.