“They’ve held the inquest and brought in a verdict of willful murder against Faradeane.” The squire sprang to his feet, then dropped down again. “They must be mad!” he exclaimed, tremulously. “I don’t know anything more than I’ve heard,” said Bartley Bradstone. “My man was there and--and told me what passed. They had Faradeane up, and he--he just behaved as he did here. Wouldn’t say anything, or give any explanation. What were they to do, under the circumstances?” The squire let his hand fall upon the table. “I would stake my life upon his innocence!” he said, solemnly. Bartley Bradstone eyed him with sullen displeasure. “That wouldn’t save him,” he said. “Things look black against him.” “I care not how black they look,” responded the squire. “I know that Faradeane is incapable of such a crime.” As he spoke the door opened. “A gentleman wishes to see you, sir,” said the butler; and as the squire made a motion of assent, a short, commonplace-looking man, dressed like a well-to-do farmer, entered. “Good-evening, sir,” he said, quietly and respectfully. “My name is McAndrew, detective, from Scotland Yard. I’ve got charge of this case.” The squire waved him to a seat and leaned back wearily. “Why do you wish to see me?” he asked. “Yes, we know nothing about it,” said Bartley Bradstone. The detective looked at him as if he had not noticed the presence of a third person, and bowed. “Certainly not, sir; but I called to pay my respects and to ask a few questions. You’ve heard how the verdict of the coroner’s inquest has gone, sir?” addressing the squire. “Yes.” “Well, sir, I don’t attach too much weight to coroners’ verdicts, but this seems reasonable enough. There’s the fact of the prisoner’s presence on the scene, and the revolver with his name engraved on it being found near the body.” “That’s very bad,” remarked Bartley Bradstone. “Yes, sir, very bad, as you say,” assented Mr. McAndrew; “but I’m not quite satisfied yet. I’ve seen the prisoner, and watched him through the inquest. And--I’ve had a good deal of experience, Mr. Vanley--he doesn’t look guilty.” “He is not guilty!” said the squire, earnestly. Mr. McAndrew nodded respectfully. “He’s a friend of yours, sir?” “He is,” assented the squire; “a very dear friend.” Bartley Bradstone shot a glance of jealousy at the sad, worn face. “Just so, sir; then you can tell me something about him--who he is and so on.” The squire passed his hand across his brow. “I--I’m afraid I cannot,” he replied. “I know nothing about Mr. Faradeane, excepting that he came here, to a cottage called The Dell, a few months ago----” “When, sir?” “In May; and that he is distinctly a gentleman, and incapable of the crime laid to his charge.”