“Yes,” said Olivia, turning her eyes upon her with solemn entreaty and insistence. “Don’t be afraid; I am strong enough. Tell me all. What have they done with him?” Bessie’s lips quivered and her eyes filled. “They have sent him for trial, miss,” she replied in a low voice. Olivia looked at her steadily, and her breath came in quick little pants. “Sent him for trial? They think he is guilty?” she said. “He, who would not hurt a dog, shoot a helpless woman! Why should he do it? Who was she?” Bessie shook her head. “No one knows, miss. Mr. Faradeane will not say anything, and--and that is why they say he did it. If he would only speak and explain, then people would believe him.” Olivia remained silent for a few moments, thinking deeply, her hands tightly clasped. “And he will say nothing?” she inquired in a low voice. “Nothing, miss; not a word!” said Bessie, the tears rolling down her cheeks; “and they all say--the servants in the hall--that the detective from London”--Olivia started and looked at her--“says that if he will not explain he--he will----” She stopped with a choking little sob. There were no tears in Olivia’s eyes. Hot and brilliant, they looked out at the window, the lines graven deep in her white forehead. “There is some mystery,” she said in a low voice. “I know that he did not do it.” “Who did, miss?” sobbed Bessie. “Some one did it--some one they can’t find; and everybody knowing Mr. Faradeane was in the wood, and that the pistol was his, will believe him guilty. Why, oh, why doesn’t he speak out?” Olivia was silent for a moment, then she raised herself on her elbow. “Where is he?” she asked. “In Wainford jail, miss,” replied Bessie, piteously. “He has been there ever since--ever since the day of the wedding----” “And the murder!” breathed Olivia. “He is shut up there with no friend to help him, while the guilty man is free!” Her eyes flashed, and she drew a long breath of repressed and passionate indignation. “Is there no one to help him--no one trying to save him?” Bessie shook her head. “I don’t know, miss. They say that no one can help him, unless he will help himself.” Olivia thought for a moment, then she sat up with a strange expression of resolution in her eyes. “Bessie, I must see him.” Bessie started and stared at her. “You, miss! Oh, how can you! They will not let him come out to you!” “No, I must go to him,” said Olivia, quietly. “To him--to the prison!” exclaimed Bessie. “Oh, miss, you cannot! The squire--Mr. Bradstone--would not permit it!” Olivia’s lips twitched at the sound of her husband’s name.