“Yes,” came the reply, dropping like an icicle from the pale, set lips. “He gave me the money.” The squire moaned. “I--I--before God I knew, I guessed nothing of this!” he exclaimed in accents of misery. “Silence!” “My father knew nothing,” said Olivia, and she reached down, and put out her hand to him over the box. “Have you that money still?” Olivia started. “Yes,” she said. “But I shall not have it an hour longer.” As she spoke she glanced at Bessie. For a moment Bessie looked as if she were trying to understand the glance; then a light broke over her face, and she rose and made her way out of the court. Olivia watched her until she disappeared, then drew a breath of relief. “Now tell me,” said Mr. Edgar, when the excitement had subsided. “When did you see Mr. Bradstone last?” “On the day of the wedding,” she replied, and she gave the answer coldly. The worst had passed; there could be no keener shame for her to endure than that which she had already borne. “At what time?” “Nearly four o’clock.” “You have not seen or exchanged a word with him since?” “No.” The crowd pressed as close as they could to the witness-box, that they might not lose a word of this never-to-be-forgotten evidence. “Do you know where he is?” asked Mr. Edgar, still with deep respect. Olivia shook her head. “I do not.” Mr. Edgar paused a moment; the faint light which he thought he had descried seemed fading, and leading him nowhere. “Did you ever hear Mr. Bradstone allude to Bella-Bella, the deceased?” he asked, in the vague hope that the question might lead to something, some new thread or clew to the mystery. For he was more than ever convinced that Faradeane was not guilty, and that if he--Mr. Edgar--could gain time, he could succeed in proving his client’s innocence. “Never,” said Olivia. “Have you received any communication from Mr. Bradstone in reference to this murder?” he asked. All eyes were fixed upon her, and all saw her wince and shrink. “You have?” said Mr. Edgar, prompt to mark every change of expression in her eloquent face. “Answer, please. Remember your oath, remember that a man’s life--Lord Clydesfold’s life--is hanging by a thread.” She cast a piteous glance at Faradeane, who had risen and stood looking at her in a silent agony of sympathy. He had risked his life, would lose it in all probability, to save her husband from the hangman’s hands, the convict’s shame, and yet she had come to this! “You have?” said Mr. Edgar. “Tell me, please. I must, unfortunately, press for an answer.” “I have!” she replied, almost voicelessly. “What was it? Have you the letter here?” She uttered a piteous little cry, and drew Bartley Bradstone’s letter from her pocket. Mr. Edgar took it calmly, though his heart beat. He read it, and his face fell slightly, master of it though he was. Mr. Sewell was on his legs in a moment. “I must see that letter,” he said, firmly. “It is----” began Mr. Edgar, but the solemn voice of the judge broke in: