Faradeane waited in silence for a moment or two, then he said: “You will leave England to-night.” “To-night?” repeated Bartley Bradstone, dully. “Yes, there is no time to lose. Strange as it may seem to you, there may be some who will not believe me guilty.” “She--for one,” muttered Bradstone between his teeth. “Let suspicion be once aroused, and the truth may be discovered. You are a business man; give business as an excuse for your sudden departure. Go on the Continent; there are still some remote spots where you will be safe from the English law. Find one--and stay there. Remember,” he spoke slowly and distinctly, “if you are in any rash moment tempted to break your word to me, and claim as your wife the woman upon whom you have fastened your name, that she holds your life in her hands! That is all I have to say to you,” he added, significantly. Bartley Bradstone passed his hand across his lips. “Well, I--I must do it. You’re right; I--I don’t feel safe. I’m better out of the way. As for Olivia; she--she never cared for me, and since this--this affair I’ve--I’ve wished I hadn’t married her. When are you going to give her that letter?” he asked, with a suspicious glance at it. “Now,” said Faradeane. “Did you think it was a trap I had laid for you? Call the warder.” Bartley Bradstone got up, but sank down again. “I’m all to pieces,” he groaned. Faradeane went to the door and knocked. “Mr. Bradstone wishes this letter sent to Mrs. Bradstone,” he said. “Very good, sir,” said the warder; and he took it. Bradstone listened to his heavy step as it clanged along the stone corridor. Then he got up and shook himself like a man trying to recover from a bad dream. “I’ll go now,” he said. “There’ll be just time to catch the up-train. Is--is there anything I can do for you?” he added, lifting his bloodshot, wavering eyes shamefacedly. “Nothing, except keep your promise,” replied Faradeane, slowly and wearily. “As you say, there is no time to lose. Good-day, and remember.” Bartley Bradstone, with lowered head, went to the door and knocked at it feebly. It was opened after a moment or two by another warder, and Bartley Bradstone passed out. He went slowly down the corridor into the stone hall, trying to drive away the hangdog expression which he knew was eloquent in every feature, and was passing the colonel’s room with as firm a step as he could manage when his heart leaped within his bosom, for Colonel Summerford called him. He turned and entered the office, and the blood rushed like a torrent through his veins, for there in the colonel’s hand was the letter! “Oh, Mr. Bradstone,” he said, “sorry to stop you; but this letter----” “Yes,” said Bartley Bradstone, trying to speak and look indifferently, though there was the sound of singing in his ears, and he could scarcely keep his eyes from the letter.