“He--he orders me about like a dog,” he muttered, with an oath. “Just like a dog! But I’ve got to go. Yes, though I’d rather give a thousand pounds than face him, I’ve got to go. He’s got me, curse him! Got me tight! If there was any way out of it, any chance----” He got up with a groan, and went to the sideboard for the familiar brandy, then put on his hat, and with as calm a countenance as he could command, walked down to the prison. Faradeane was pacing to and fro with a steady, thoughtful stride; and, as he faced his visitor, Bartley Bradstone started at the change which the close confinement--and the ordeal of Olivia’s visit, though Bartley did not know that--had worked in the handsome face and stalwart figure. “You--you sent for me,” he said, unsteadily, and carefully avoiding Faradeane’s stern, searching eyes. “Yes; you were wise to come.” “Of course I should come,” mumbled Bradstone. “If there is anything I can do--God knows I’m wretched and miserable enough,” he broke off with a whine. “I feel as if I could shoot myself.” “I dare say,” said Faradeane, not contemptuously, but with simple assent more biting than the most polished scorn. “But you cannot do that; it would reveal the truth, and cover her with the shame from which I--and you--have resolved to shield her at all cost. At all cost, do you hear me?” “I hear,” said Bartley Bradstone, leaning against the table and looking round the cell with a shudder. “I’ll do anything. I said I would when--when----” “I agreed to take your crime upon my hands and suffer for you,” said Faradeane, grimly. “I have sent for you to tell you what you must do.” He looked up almost eagerly. “What is it?” “You must leave England,” said Faradeane, slowly and deliberately, as if he were propounding a carefully considered scheme. Bartley Bradstone’s eagerness increased. “I’ll do it,” he said. “I--I’ve thought all along it would be better for me to get away. There’s no knowing what may turn up. This detective fellow from London, I don’t like the look of him,” and he covertly wiped the perspiration from his pallid forehead. “He might find out----” “What can he find out?” asked Faradeane, sternly, and with a searching look. “What had this woman done to you that you should shoot her?” “I didn’t mean to! I swear it!” exclaimed Bradstone, with a terrible oath. “I--I only meant to frighten her, and--and the cursed thing went off, and----” He dashed his hands before his eyes and shuddered. Faradeane turned away with a spasm of disgust. “What hold had she on you?” he demanded. Bartley Bradstone shot a suspicious, cunning glance at him. “She--she wanted me to marry her,” he said, in a low voice. Faradeane sighed. “You--you cur!” he said, not angrily, but with infinite scorn. “When--when she found I was married already she threatened to--to go then and there to the Grange and blare out a scandal before--before Olivia.” Faradeane winced as the beloved name left the man’s lips.