Bartley Bradstone stood in the corridor biting his lip, and looking after the prisoner in a dull, vacant fashion, and had quite forgotten Mr. McAndrew until that gentleman’s voice sounded at his elbow. “Carrying it with a high hand, isn’t he, Mr. Bradstone?” Bartley Bradstone started. “Eh? Y--es, yes! You think that--that there isn’t any chance for him? You think he’s guilty still?” The detective looked at him with a sudden and utterly expressionless stare. “I never give an opinion myself, sir,” he said. “Never. It’s unprofessional. But I think the jury, when he goes for trial, will think him guilty.” A strange expression, it almost seemed like relief, shot across Bartley Bradstone’s face, but it was gone in an instant, and, with a shake of his head, he said: “They’ll be a parcel of fools, then. He’s no more guilty than I am.” “Just so, sir,” remarked Mr. McAndrew. “But it’s strange he doesn’t say so, isn’t it? And Mrs. Bradstone is still in danger, sir?” he broke off, respectfully. “Yes, yes,” assented Bartley Bradstone, with a heavy sigh and an anxious, troubled look, and he moved down the corridor to the door where a closed carriage and pair stood waiting. “Oh, stop!” he said, with his hand on the door and looking back at the detective. “I--I forgot. Mr. Vanley asked me to say that if there was anything that could be done for the--the prisoner, he should like to do it. I suppose there will be lawyers and--a counsel. Just see to it, will you?” Mr. McAndrew regarded him with the same stolid stare. “I’m afraid I can’t interfere, sir,” he said, thoughtfully. “You see, I’m for the prosecution; at least, I’m for the truth!” Bartley Bradstone shot a glance at him; but the man’s face was so wooden that it robbed the words of any significance. “But I’ll put Mr. Faradeane in the way he should go--I can do that without going beyond my duty, though whether he’ll pay any attention to my advice is quite another thing.” Bartley Bradstone got into the carriage, and, as the footman in the gorgeous Maples livery closed the door, Bradstone leaned forward. “Anything discovered about the woman--what’s her name?--Bella?” he asked. Mr. McAndrew shrugged his shoulders. “Nothing of any consequence, sir,” he replied. Bartley Bradstone sank back out of sight, and, being out of sight, wiped the perspiration from his forehead. Mr. McAndrew looked after the carriage for a moment or two, passing his hand over his mouth in the manner peculiar to him; then turned and made his way to the jail.