“And I--cannot!” he responded. “Go now--every moment----” He put out his hand to her, and she took it in hers and held it for a moment, her tearless eyes fixed on his, as if she hoped even against hope, at that last moment, to see some signs of yielding; but his eyes met hers with the sad firmness and resignation they had worn all through. “Good-by--God bless you--the best and sweetest and truest----” His voice broke; the warder opened the door, and Faradeane, seeing Bessie standing in the corridor, beckoned to her. “Bessie!” and he held out his hand with a faint smile. “Take care of her! She looks so ill--and weak. Take care of her--and never let her come here again! Good-by--don’t cry, Bessie.” “Now, ladies, please!” said the warder, respectfully, but firmly. As the door closed with a heavy clang, Olivia started and turned with a little cry of agony and despair toward the cell. Then Bessie drew her aside. The colonel put them in the brougham, and Olivia sank back, white and exhausted; but there were no tears in her eyes, though Bessie cried bitterly. When they got home Olivia made her way upstairs, and, throwing herself down on her knees beside the bed, hid her face in her hands, one thought taking possession of her to the exclusion of all else. She forgot that she was married to Bartley Bradstone, forgot that in the bosom of her wedding-dress was the sum for which she had sold herself, forgot even her father and his great need. All she remembered was that Harold Faradeane lay in prison charged with the awful crime of murder; and that, unless some hand was stretched forth to save him, his days were numbered. CHAPTER XXX. “QUITS.” That afternoon a policeman walked up to The Maples and inquired for Mr. Bradstone. That gentleman was standing at the window, his hands thrust in his pockets, his head sunk on his breast, and the sight of the constable sent the blood rushing through his head, and made him clutch at the window-sill with a gasp of dread. “A letter, sir, from the prisoner,” said the man. “Eh? Oh, yes, certainly,” stammered Bartley Bradstone; and he took the note to the other end of the room. It was only one line. I wish to see you.--F. Bartley Bradstone stared at it, and bit at his lips nervously. “Just say all right, will you?” he said to the policeman. “You--you can get something to drink in the servants’ hall. Er--er--by the way, is Mr. McAndrew back yet?” “No, sir,” replied the man. “Not yet, sir. Rather strange his keeping away so long; but I suppose he’s getting evidence in London. There’s never any knowing what these big detectives are after.” When the policeman had gone, Bartley Bradstone dropped into a chair and bit his nails, glancing now and again at the peremptory summons.