“Oh, my lord!” said Mr. Edgar. “Hearsay evidence! Really!” But Bertie rushed on: “No, I do not know why he was living under an assumed name. He would not tell me. I wish he had; but he refused.” He stopped, feeling all eyes upon him. He had spoiled the effect his affectionate greeting and indignant assertion of the prisoner’s innocence had produced. “You may stand down, my lord,” said Mr. Sewell. He went and stood beside Olivia, and took her hand. Then Mr. Sewell called the landlord of the George Inn, where Bella-Bella had stopped; Faradeane’s man, who had prevented her entering The Dell--the case looked blacker--and then he called William Alford. It was Bessie’s turn to shrink and cry now. “You were passing The Dell, the prisoner’s cottage, the night of the visit of the deceased. Tell us the conversation you heard between her and the prisoner.” Alford, with a piteous look at Bessie and Faradeane, hesitated. “I--I don’t remember. I couldn’t hear distinctly.” Mr. Sewell looked at him sternly. “Come, sir; were these the words?” and he repeated Bella’s speech, which in a tipsy moment poor Alford had blurted out one night at the George. “You heard her say that she knew the prisoner wished she was dead, that he would like to kill her? Answer, sir!” “I----Oh, Mr. Faradeane, what am I to do, sir?” “Answer,” said Faradeane, in a grave, compassionate voice. “Silence!” “Well,” with a groan, “I did!” CHAPTER XXXIII. A GYPSY’S EVIDENCE. We must leave the court--now adjourned for luncheon--and follow Bartley Bradstone. He reached home more dead than alive after his fright in the woods, and as he recovered his scattered senses, there flashed upon his remembrance the note inclosing the confession. He would destroy that the first thing, then he would pack his portmanteau, and, obeying Faradeane’s instructions, run over to the Continent. He thrust one hand into his coat pocket, and drew a candle toward him with the other. Then he fell back, white to the lips, and with an inarticulate cry. The packet had--gone! He felt in every pocket, though he knew well that he had put it in his overcoat breast-pocket as he stood on the steps of the Grange--shook his coat, unfolded and shook his handkerchief, and examined the room. With quaking limbs he put on his hat, and, scrutinizing every inch of the way, retraced his steps through the house and down the drive, along the road and up the Grange avenue, almost as far as the railings where he had seen the apparition, but not quite so far. Even to recover the fatal letter he could not bring himself to face that awful spot again.