“And I--I couldn’t stand it! It drove me mad! That’s it! I was mad--mad! But I didn’t mean to shoot her, only to frighten her.” Faradeane got as far from him as the small cell would permit, and, looking down at him, said, slowly and sternly: “Take that paper, and write as I tell you.” Bartley Bradstone looked up fearfully. “What are you going to get me to do?” he whined. “Don’t--don’t be hard on me for--for her sake.” Faradeane pointed to the paper. “Let there be as few words as possible between us, if you please. Write as I tell you. Refuse, and I give you up here and now.” Trembling and shaking, the wretched man clutched the paper. I, Bartley Bradstone, shot the woman called Bella-Bella in Harkwood Spinney. “Sign it.” Bradstone lifted his ashen face. “Good God! You--you seem to mean to hang me, after all,” he gasped. “After all your fine talk of saving her from trouble----” “Silence!” said Faradeane, sternly. “Do as I bid you. There is no time for hesitation; the warder will be here in a very few minutes. If that is not written and you have not solemnly pledged yourself to carry out my scheme for your safety--for your safety, do you hear?---I send for Colonel Summerford and denounce you.” With a groan, Bartley Bradstone wrote the short confession. It was so feeble a scrawl, so twisted and broken as to be almost illegible. Faradeane took it--and as he did so the real criminal noticed that he touched it as one touches some noxious thing--then folded it and put it in an envelope. “Address it to Miss Van--to your wife,” he said, grimly. Bartley Bradstone started and clutched at the table. “To Olivia! To her!” he gasped. “Is that your game? You--you know what she’d do. You know she’d hang me twice over, with joy, to save you.” Faradeane raised his hand, but let it fall to his side. “Do not try me too hard,” he said, hoarsely. “Address it.” With another groan, Bartley Bradstone obeyed. Faradeane took a sheet of paper from his breast-pocket and placed it before him. Bartley Bradstone read it and uttered an exclamation, and staggered to his feet; then sank down again, as if too weak to stand. This is what Faradeane had written: Your husband has left England forever. If, at any time, under any pretence, he should break the vow he has made to me, and attempt to claim you, open the enclosed envelope. While he refrains from troubling you, keep it sacred and inviolate, and if he should die, leaving you unmolested, burn it. You have spoken of our friendship: in the name of that friendship, with all the earnestness of a man over whom hangs the shadow of death, I leave you this charge. My honor is in your hands. HAROLD FARADEANE. He took the paper from Bartley Bradstone’s trembling hands, and, inclosing it, together with the confession, in an envelope, addressed it in firm, steady writing to Olivia. Bartley Bradstone sat staring at the floor like a man dazed.