“This letter for Mrs. Bradstone,” continued the colonel. “I was just sending some one with it; I don’t know whether you would like to take it.” Danger makes a man, especially if he be a Bartley Bradstone, sharp. He was just on the point of holding out his hand for the letter, when there flashed upon him the thought that Faradeane would probably ask if it had been delivered, and, hearing that it had been consigned to Bradstone’s care, would make him account for it. “I--I am going straight to The Maples, and from there on to London on important business, connected with my unfortunate friend, Mr. Faradeane,” he said, with a happy inspiration. “If you could kindly send it on by one of your men.” “Certainly, certainly,” responded the colonel. “It was from no reluctance to do Mr. Faradeane a service, but in the desire to save time. I trust that you may be able to do some good for him, Mr. Bradstone. I don’t mind admitting that I’m deeply interested in the case, and more especially in him, prisoner as he is.” “We all are, we all are,” said Bartley Bradstone, with a deep sigh. “My wife especially----” “Yes, I judged that by her visit here this morning,” said the colonel. Bartley Bradstone started, and his face went pale, one might almost say green. “She--she was here this morning!” he exclaimed. “Oh, yes,” he added, hastily, as the colonel colored and looked as if he could have bitten his tongue out. “Yes, I’d forgotten for the moment. Oh, yes, we are all doing what we can. Of course, he is innocent, poor fellow!” The colonel shook his head gravely. “I hope you will be able to convince a jury of that,” he said; “but----” Bartley Bradstone sighed again. “We shall leave no stone unturned, not one,” he said. “And you will send the letter? Thank you.” He walked out of the office briskly, and down the street in the direction any one going straight with the letter must take. He turned a corner sharply, then pulled up, and, with a wildly beating heart, waited. Two, three minutes passed, then a policeman came round the road. Bartley Bradstone waited until the man had reached the corner, then hurriedly ran against him. “Hallo!” he said. “I beg your pardon. I was going back to Colonel Summerford to tell him that I should have to go to the Grange, and that I would take Mrs. Bradstone’s letter myself.” The man produced it instantly; he had overheard the conversation between the colonel and Bradstone. Bradstone took the note, with a casual glance at it, gave the man a shilling, and walked on. All the way to The Maples the letter--the words in his own handwriting which could, if they were allowed to escape from that envelope, hang him--seemed to be burning through his clothes and eating a fiery way into his heart.