The Day of Judgment

by Joseph Hocking

THE DAY OF JUDGMENT

On the morning of the second day of the trial Paul Stepaside woke from a troubled sleep. Throughout the night he had been living again in his dreams the scenes of the trial. They had been confused and bewildered; but one fact dominated everything else: the man who was his judge was his father! When he woke, that was the first thought that appeared clear in his mental horizon. Before he had gone to sleep he realised that he hated his father with a more intense hatred than when his mother had told her story on the Altarnun Moors. No thought of tenderness came into his mind. No feeling of affection entered his heart. It seemed to him as though all the darkness of his life, all the pain he had ever suffered, all the wrongs he had ever endured, were because of the man who, his mother declared, was his father. And he hated him! It was through him he lay in prison. It was through him the shadow of the gallows rested upon him. He realised, too, even although his heart refused to assent to the finding of his brain, that he must no longer love the woman who was dearer to him than his own life. His sister? His heart made mockery of the thought! No man loved a sister as he loved Mary Bolitho. Only a half-sister, it is true, but they were both children of the same father. Oh, the bitter mockery, the terrible irony of it! And this man, who stood for justice, who represented the majesty of the law, who had risen to one of the highest places in the realm of the law, had been in reality a criminal ever since he came to manhood. And this man had made it, as it seemed to him, a sin for him to love the woman who was all the world to him. His sister! His sister! He had some idea that the English law did not forbid a man marrying his own stepsister, but something in his heart revolted against that. And yet, and yet—— But what did it all matter? He lay there in Strangeways Gaol charged with murder. The first day of the trial had gone black against him, and, although he knew no more as to who murdered Ned Wilson than the veriest stranger, he realised that he stood in the most imminent danger. And the man who was really responsible for everything, the man who was at the heart of it all, was the judge! What should he do? If he did what was in his heart, he could make him a byword and a hissing through the whole country; but that, again, meant disgrace for Mary, and he had sworn that she must suffer nothing. The warder brought him his morning meal, which he ate silently. He was thinking what the day would bring forth. He wondered how long the trial would last, and what the jury would say. He could not see his way through the tangle of his life. But as he thought of everything a grim resolve mastered him. He would not die; he simply would not! He would fight to the very last. He would tear the evidence which had been adduced in fragments. He would proclaim his innocence, and not only proclaim it, but prove it. He was sadly handicapped, for whatever else he must do he must see to it that no suspicion would attach to his mother. But without allowing anyone to think of her in such a relation, he would make it impossible for the jury to condemn him.

When breakfast was over, he tramped his little cell, thinking, thinking, considering a score of plans, and discarding them, yet all the time fighting his way towards his course of action.

He laughed as he reflected on the irony of the situation. The judge would not know what he knew, but sitting there in all his stately dignity, arrayed in his robes of office, he would not realise that the man charged with murder was his son. He wondered how he could let him know it, wondered how he could bring his own villainy home to him. He had not one tender thought for his father, not one—only scorn, contempt, hatred was in his heart when he thought of him. And yet he was his own father—father, too, of the woman he loved, the woman whom he had held in his arms and who had expressed her infinite faith in him.

Not long before the hour of the trial the chaplain again paid him a visit. But Paul was in no humour to receive him.

"I am afraid you only waste your time coming to me," he said. "I appreciate the fact that you are a kind-hearted man, but see, I haven't an atom of faith, not an atom. I do not believe in the value of your religion. I am an atheist."

"You believe nothing?" said the chaplain.

"Nothing as far as your profession is concerned," said Paul, "nothing."

"Would nothing convince you?" said the chaplain.

"Nothing," replied Paul grimly. And then he laughed. "I am wrong, though," he added. "Yes, I think one thing would convince me. You remember the story I told you yesterday—or shall we call it an incident, and not a story?"

"I remember. I suppose it had something to do with your own life?"

"You have heard the miserable stories, then?" said Paul.

"I have heard a great many things about you," replied the chaplain.

"Well, then," said Paul. "Let me say this to you: I think this would convince me that there might be something in religion if my father confessed his wrong, publicly confessed it, mind you, and sought to do right; if he proclaimed his ill-deeds before the world, and did all in his power to rectify the wrong he had done. Then I might believe."

"And nothing else would convince you?" said the chaplain.

"Nothing else," said Paul.

"But who is your father? Where is he?"

"Ah," said Paul. "But it's no use thinking of it any more. The whole thing is hopeless, and life is just a great mockery."

The chaplain left him with a sad heart. He was a kind man, and sought to do his duty, and Paul had interested him strangely.

The court that day was, if possible, more crowded than ever. The morning papers had been filled with reports of the previous day's trial. The wildest of rumours had been afloat. Descriptive articles had been written about the young Member of Parliament who was accused of such a terrible crime. His every word had been commented on. His appearance had been discussed. The evidence given had been the subject of thousands of gossiping tongues. And so the court that day was simply thronged with an intense, eager crowd. Moreover, the inwardness of the trial had seized upon the imaginations of the people. It was more real, more vivid to them than it had been the day before. And when Paul entered the dock, accompanied by two policemen, a great silence fell upon the court, while every eye was fixed upon him.

"He looks as hard and proud as ever!"

"Yes, there's not much sign of repentance!"

"I wonder if the trial will close to-day?"

"There's no knowing. I've heard as 'ow several witnesses will be brought into court which was never thought of at the beginning. Will Ashley says as 'ow he saw Paul about half-past five on the morning of the murder not far from Howden Clough. Will says as 'ow there was a look in his eyes like the eyes of a madman."

"But Will never appeared before the coroner's inquest?"

"No; I suppose he wanted to be kept out of it. But he 'appened to tell his missis, and his missis told it to somebody else, who told it to one of the policemen, and that's 'ow it came about."

In another part of the court, not far from the barristers' seats, two ladies discussed Paul. They, too, had been brought there by morbid curiosity aroused by this trial.

"Did you know that Judge Bolitho's daughter was here yesterday?"

"No. Was she?"

"Yes. I watched her face during the trial. It was as pale as death. I wonder how she dared to come."

"Why, what do you mean?"

"Oh, you know she was engaged to young Wilson."

"I've heard that was denied."

"Well, anyhow, there's something about it in one of the Brunford papers, and there's no doubt Wilson was in love with her."

"Then no wonder she was pale."

"Mrs. Jackson told me she saw her smile on the prisoner."

"She must have been mistaken. It's terribly interesting, isn't it?"

"I wonder when they will commence. It's five minutes past time."

This was true. Five minutes had passed away since Paul had been led to the dock, and still the trial had not commenced. The reason for this was evident—the judge had not yet appeared. The jurymen were in their places, conversing in low whispers one with another. More than one was anxious and pale. A number of barristers were also present, eager for the commencement of the day's trial. They were wondering what new factor would be at work that day. To most of them it was a case that was deeply interesting, one which they wished to study and which might help them in days to come. Newspaper reporters sat busily writing. Each was trying to vie with the other to produce a sensational description. Presently, as if by magic, a great silence fell upon the court. It was now ten minutes past the time when the trial should commence, and still the judge had not appeared. Each seemed to be wondering what was the matter. The air was tense with excitement. Could anything have happened? What did the judge mean by being late? And still they waited and watched, until at last the silence became almost painful.

Presently a deep sigh rose from the crowded seats. It seemed as if the spectators wanted to give vent to their feelings. A curtain at the back of the hall was drawn aside, and Judge Bolitho, with bowed head and staggering footsteps, found his way to his accustomed seat.

CHAPTER XXIII

THE DAY OF JUDGMENT (continued)

The attention of all present, which had been directed towards Paul, was now diverted to the judge. It seemed for the moment as though Paul were no longer the centre of interest, nor indeed did he occupy the chief place in the great drama of life which was played before him. It was no longer Hamlet who held the stage, but the King.

There was little wonder at this. He fell into his chair as if he were unable to support himself, and everyone saw at a glance that something of terrible import must have happened to him. His eyes were bloodshot; his face, usually so healthful looking and florid, was pale and haggard; his cheeks were baggy; and he was bowed down as if by some great calamity. Everyone felt this, although no one spoke. All eyes were riveted upon him; everyone took note of his slightest movement.

For a few seconds he sat with bowed head, apparently looking at the papers before him, but really seeing nothing. He seemed to be pondering what to do, what to say. More than one noticed that his hands trembled. The clerk of the assizes mentioned something to him, but the judge took no notice; the man might not have spoken at all.

At length he seemed to gather himself up as if by a great effort. Twice he essayed to speak, and twice he failed. It might appear as though the power of language were gone.

If the silence had been intense when he had entered the court, it was more than ever so now. People seemed afraid to breathe. The jurymen looked towards him in wonder, and barristers who were habitués of courts of law, and who had grown callous even with regard to the most interesting cases, watched him with an eagerness that they had never known before, while the spectators seemed to be afraid to breathe.

And yet nothing had been said. From the casual observer's point of view the case was to recommence in the ordinary way, save that the judge was a few minutes late. But everyone knew something was about to happen. The very air they breathed was tense with emotion.

"Gentlemen," said the judge presently—and it did not seem like his voice at all, it was so hoarse and unnatural—"Gentlemen, I wish to make a statement which is of the utmost importance. I wish to say that I can no longer sit in judgment on this case, and that therefore, to all intents and purposes, the court is dismissed."

No one moved or made a sound, save that the reporters at their desks were busily writing. Their pencils, as they swept over their note-books, made quite a noise, so tense was the silence which prevailed. More than one of these reporters declared afterwards that they did not know what they were writing. They were simply like automata, acting according to custom.

Although the judge had dismissed the court, no one moved. As if by instinct, all felt that there was something more to be said. What had prompted Judge Bolitho to make this statement they did not know, they could not conceive; but they felt rather than thought that something tremendous was at stake. Old, habitual theatre-goers declared to each other in talking about the matter afterwards that no drama they had ever witnessed had ever been so exciting as the scene that day. But nothing had depended upon what was said. The words of the judge were few and simple, but the very place seemed laden with doom.

"In abandoning all associations with this case," went on the judge, and his voice was more natural now, "I wish to make a further statement. Perhaps there seems no sufficient reason why I should do so, nevertheless I must. I can no longer sit in judgment upon the prisoner for the gravest of all reasons——" Again he stopped. He did not know how to proceed. Perhaps such a thing was almost unprecedented in the history of trials. Up to that moment Paul had been like a man in a dream. On entering the dock and finding that the judge was not present he fell to wondering at the reason of his lateness, and presently could not help being affected by the influences which surrounded him. He, too, felt there was something in the air which, to say the least of it, was not usual. He had come there with his heart full of bitter hatred, with a feeling that the man who was to sit in judgment upon him, even although he were his father, was his enemy. In a vague way he wondered what would happen through the day, wondered whether he should be able to keep his knowledge to himself, wondered whether, at some moment when the judge manifested some particular injustice to him, he might not yield to the passion of the moment and proclaim the relationship. Outwardly he was still cool and collected, although his face was very pale and his eyes burned like coals of fire.

When the judge entered the court he, too, was much moved by his appearance. He saw that he had been suffering terribly, and into his heart came a kind of savage joy. There seemed something like poetical justice in the thought of this man's suffering, and he wondered whether he had in some way learned the truth.

When Judge Bolitho opened his mouth to speak, Paul's heart seemed to stop. So intense was his interest in what he would say that, for the moment, he forgot his own position. The shadow of death was somehow removed from him; that grimness and the horror of the trial had lost their meaning. That "Gentlemen, I wish to make a statement which is of the utmost importance. I wish to say that I can no longer sit in judgment on this case …"—what did it mean? A thousand wild fancies flashed through his mind. He wondered whether Mary Bolitho had been at work, whether this was the first step in her endeavours to prove him innocent. He did not know how it could be, but, like lightning, his mind and heart flew to her.

He gave a quick glance around the court and turned towards the spot where he had seen her on the previous day. Even then he realised that all attention was turned from him to the judge, realised that everyone waited with breathless interest for the next words that should fall from his lips. But he could not see Mary. Again his eyes swept over the crowded benches which held the spectators, but she was not there. He wondered why. In a sense he was glad. At least she no longer looked upon his ignominy and shame. And yet he felt the loss of her presence. The day before she had cheered him in spite of himself, strengthened him to bear the brunt of the battle; but now he was alone.

Again the judge spoke, and Paul listened to every word that passed his lips. Like the other spectators, he was eager to know what would follow.

"I cannot continue to sit in judgment upon the prisoner," went on the judge; and every word was clearly enunciated. "And my reason for this is all-sufficient—I cannot sit in judgment upon him because I have learnt that he is my own son!"

Paul's heart gave a leap as he heard the words. It seemed to him as though the atmosphere of the court changed as if by magic. There was something electric in it, something that seemed to alter the whole state of affairs and change the current of events. His heart beat with a new hope and burned with a strange joy. He had not yet grasped what it meant. He could not yet read the thoughts that were passing in the judge's mind, but he felt their consequence, felt that, in spite of everything, the sky was becoming brighter.

The effect on the court, as may be imagined, was tremendous. The barristers sat in their seats open-mouthed. Never in all their experience had they witnessed such an event. The jury seemed incapable of moving, but many of the spectators, unable to restrain their emotions, sobbed hysterically.

"I wish to say," went on the judge, "that I have had no communication in any form with the prisoner, neither did he know of what was in my mind as I came here to-day. I have not seen him during the trial except in this court. Realising our relations as judge and prisoner this was impossible. But no sooner did I learn of the relationship which existed between us than I realised the impossibility of my continuing to sit on this case."

For the moment he stopped, as if he had said all that he intended to say. Perhaps he felt that it was not for the jurymen to know, or for that gaping crowd to know the real thoughts that were in his heart. But no one made a movement as if to go. Men and women sat there, hungry to hear more, eager for the continuance of the exciting scene which had aroused them to the very depths of their nature. One man who was there has told me since that he forgot, just as others had forgotten, that Paul Stepaside was being tried for murder. It was rather some great drama of life which was being acted for their benefit, and which held them all spellbound as if by some magician's power. They could not understand the why and the wherefore. Their minds were too bewildered and excited to realise what lay behind it all, but all felt that there was something momentous, tragic.

Presently the judge lifted his head as if to speak again. That he was suffering terribly, and undoubtedly that he was under the influence of mighty emotions all were sure. Many there were who, forgetful of all else, pitied him. But the prevailing feeling was that of wonder and eager expectation of what might come next.

"I need not say," went on the judge, "that the proceedings of yesterday are nullified by my action to-day. I need not say that another of his Majesty's judges will have to sit in my place, that a new jury will have to be sworn, and the case will have to be re-tried from the beginning. But with that I have nothing to do, and for the moment, although it is not in accordance with any law or usage, I want to say what is in my heart. It was only late last night that I learnt of the relationship between the man who is known as Paul Stepaside and myself, and therefore I could not make known my intentions before; but this I do wish to say, here, in the presence of all who have gathered together to witness this trial—Paul Stepaside is my lawful son, and, unknowingly, I have sinned against him grievously and greatly. His mother is my lawful wife—how and where she became so it is not for me to tell you or for you to know—but such is the truth. Concerning the fact itself, however, I wish it to be made known—as it will be made known—that his mother is my lawful wife, and that he is my lawful son, and that I do here and now confess the wrong which I have done to him, even although that wrong was to me largely unknown. In a sense there is no need that I should make this explanation in this way; but I do it because my conscience compels me to do so and because I wish here and now to ask my son's forgiveness."

He still spoke in the same slow, measured tones, his voice somewhat husky, but every word reaching the ears of all present. And as he spoke, Paul seemed to feel as though the foundations of the world were slipping away from under his feet. His thoughts of revenge were being scattered to the winds. He had never dreamt of this; never in the wildest of his imaginings had he thought Judge Bolitho would have made such a confession. Even now he could not understand it, much less realise it; but he felt it to be the most tragic moment of his life. He felt as if the world could never be the same to him again. And yet he hated the judge. Why it was he could not tell; but even as he spoke, even as he made this most momentous confession, his heart steeled against his father. In spite of his humility, in spite of his suffering, in spite of what it must have cost him to have spoken the words to which he had just listened, he still hated him. The man had wrecked his mother's life, robbed her of her girlhood, sent her away into loneliness and sorrow, allowed her to bear her disgrace in solitude. He had robbed him also of his boyhood, of his name. He had ever been his enemy. From the first time they had met he had sought to crush him; and he wondered, even now, with a mad wonder, whether there were not some kind of ulterior motive prompting him to say these things.

The effect, however, upon the spectators, was entirely different. Although his words seemed commonplace enough, there was something pathetic in them. All present realised something of the inwardness of that to which they had just been listening. Although it was no distinct thought in their minds, all realised what it must have cost him to make such a confession. When he said that he had made it in order to ask his son's forgiveness, a great sobbing sigh swept like a wave over the court.

Still the judge spoke on in the same slow, measured tones, although all felt that he was a man in agony.

"Of the rights and wrongs of this trial," he went on, "it is for me to say nothing. Whether I believe Paul Stepaside, my son, to be guilty of the murder of the late Edward Wilson I must not say. It will be for another to listen to the evidence. It will be for another to advise the jury concerning their verdict. I am simply the judge who has been, and therefore can say nothing except this—that if Paul Stepaside is guilty of the murder of Edward Wilson, I am not innocent. If he struck him the blow which has been described, a measure of the guilt belongs to me. If I had done my duty to him as a child, as a youth, and as a young man, he would, in all probability, not have been here. And therefore, although technically and legally I know nothing of the murder, if he is guilty I must share in his guilt. This I say that the truth may be understood and realised."

Again he ceased speaking. It seemed now as if he had said all he intended to say—much more than any of the spectators thought a man in his position could have said; but still they sat in silence, except for an occasional sob, or the hoarse breathing of some woman who could not control her excitement. The pencils of the reporters were still. They were waiting eagerly for the next word that should fall from the judge's lips should he speak further. They realised by now the tremendous possibilities of the case. No murder trial on record ever gave such an opportunity for a descriptive journalist as this, and they knew what effect their report would have upon the excited public.

The judge rose to his feet.

"That is all I think I need say," he said.

He turned as if to leave the court, then paused, and his eyes moved towards his son. For a moment the two men stood looking at each other. Paul, pale, erect, tense, almost overwhelmed by what he had heard, yet strong in his mastery over himself and wondering what it all might mean; the judge bowed, haggard, with bloodshot eyes and trembling limbs. For several seconds they stood looking at each other, while the crowd, forgetful of where they were, sat watching, waiting, listening.

"Paul, my son, can you forgive me!" said the judge.

But Paul made no sign, and then Judge Bolitho, like a man who had received his death warrant, staggered out of the court.

Immediately the whole place was in confusion. So affected was everyone by what had taken place that they even forgot the presence of the prisoner. Each talked excitedly with his neighbour concerning the revelation which had been made. No attempt at keeping order was made. Ushers, barristers, jurymen, spectators were all eagerly discussing what they had heard.

"Never heerd owt like it!" said one weaver to another. He had come all the way from Brunford that morning to be present at the trial. "They can never hang him after this!"

"Nay," said the other. "But, after all, it's got nowt to do with th' murder. Either Paul killed him or he didn't; and if he killed him he'll be hanged for it."

"I'm noan so sure," was the reply. "Why, the king would interfere. I've heerd as 'ow Judge Bolitho is very friendly with his Majesty, and he would never let his son get hanged."

"Nay, king or no king, people'll cry out for justice. If Paul Stepaside killed Ned Wilson, no matter if he is the son of a thousand Judge Bolithos, he'll swing."

"But did'st ever hear owt like it? I wouldn't have missed it for a month's wage. Just think on it! The judge gets up and says as 'ow he canna go ony further 'cause the murderer is his son!"

"I never liked th' chap before," was the response, "but I canna 'elp liking him now, a bit 't ony rate. It must have cost him summat to get up in t' court like that."

"But just think on 't!" said the other. "If what he says is true, the woman as we have known as Mrs. Stepaside is Judge Bolitho's wife! Weel then, canst a' see? Judge Bolitho must be a bigamist. His daughter is in the town at this very time, and he must have married her mother while Paul's mother was alive. I tell thee, there'll be rare doings."

"Ay," replied the other; "but I expect they'll patch it up. These lawyer chaps can do onything. I heerd one on 'em say once that all law was a matter of interpretation, and you may be sure that they'll interpret it to suit theirsen."

"Nay; I'm noan so sure," replied the other. "But it's a rare business. By goom! All t' preachers i' Lancashire will have this affair for a text!"

In another part of the court the two ladies who had been discussing Paul on the previous day were now discussing his father.

"Did you ever dream of such a thing?"

"Well," was the reply. "When I come to think of it, there is a resemblance between them."

"How can you say that? The prisoner is tall, dark; he has black hair and black eyes, while Judge Bolitho is florid and has light hair."

"No; but their features are the same. Do you know, after all, there's something in blood. No one can help seeing that Stepaside is a gentleman."

"Why, I thought you said before that his common blood showed itself."

"My dear, you misunderstood me. See the way he has risen in the world. I am told that Judge Bolitho comes from one of the oldest families in the West of England, and family tells, my dear, family tells!"

"But just think of it! Would you have believed that a proud man like Judge Bolitho would have stood up and made such a revelation to a gaping crowd like this?"

"Conscience, my dear, conscience!"

"Yes; but what about his conscience during the years? I tell you we've not seen the end of this business yet. Can't you see the complications?"

"Do you know, I've often been tempted to invite Stepaside to my house. I wish I had now; he must be an interesting man."

"They'll never hang him after this. Do you think so?"

"I don't know. If these things had come to light a few days ago, before the trial commenced, they might have hushed it up; but I don't see how they can now."

"But wasn't it tremendously exciting. I wouldn't have missed it for anything. I felt a shiver down my back all the time the judge was speaking. What a splendid scene for a play!"

And so they continued talking. The real deep issues of the case were as nothing. To them it was an event which interested them beyond words. It fed their love for excitement, and promised to be a subject of conversation for many days to come.

Meanwhile the barristers had gathered together in excited groups. They discussed the matter in an entirely different way. To them the case was everything, and they fastened upon all the legal difficulties which might arise. More than one wondered, too, whether out of such a maelstrom of events work would not be bound to fall to them.

"Who will be appointed judge, I wonder?" said one.

"Oh, Branscombe, I expect."

"I wonder whether Stepaside had some inkling of the truth. Perhaps that was the reason he refused to engage counsel."

"Do you think Stepaside knew all the time?"

"There's no knowing; he's such a secretive fellow. Did you notice the expression on his face all day yesterday when he looked at the judge? And this morning I couldn't help noticing it. I tell you, Stepaside knew a great deal more than we imagined, and he's had something up his sleeve the whole time. There'll be an interesting dénouement to all this."

"Will he be hanged, think you?"

"Ask me another! As far as circumstantial evidence goes, the man's dead already, unless he has something to fire forth at the last."

"I see now," said another. "That was the reason Bolitho was so excited last night. Don't you remember how he trembled when that note was brought to him, and how he left the room like a man in a dream? That's it. There was some hint of this in the letter he received. Then he went out and made certain."

"But how could he do that?"

"Who knows? The fact remains that he didn't know till last night. He said as much just now. Anyone can see he didn't have a wink of sleep last night."

"Yes, that was plain enough. He must have suffered the torments of the damned!"

"All the same, it was a plucky thing to do! Would you have done it if you had been in his place?"

"A man doesn't know what he would do under such circumstances. All the same, we can't help admiring him. You see, Bolitho always had a strain of religion in him, and although he was as hard as nails in many respects, he possessed the remains of an old conscience."

Slowly the court emptied itself, and the people found their way into the street, still eagerly discussing every phase of the question, still asking and answering questions.

"I tell thee what," a rough collier was heard to say. "God Almighty's been to work, and when God Almighty gets to work wonderful things happen! When I get back to Brunford I'm going to our minister straight away and ask him to call a meeting for prayer. We mun pray, I tell you. We mun!"

During this time Paul was led back to his cell. The warders would far rather have remained in the court and talked the matter over with the others, but still the influence of discipline was upon them, and they had to do their duty. As a consequence, Paul was soon away from the noise of the excited crowd, and a few minutes later was alone in his cell. As may be imagined, if the scene that morning had caused such excitement among the spectators, it had aroused his nature to the very depths. Everything was so unexpected, so unthought of. In all his calculations Paul had never thought of this. He had wondered in what way Judge Bolitho, whenever the truth became known to him, would meet the difficulties which arose, but he had never dreamt he would stand up in a crowded court like that and make such a confession. Paul knew him to be a proud man, knew, too, that he was sensitive to the least approach of shame, knew that he valued the name he owned—one of the oldest in England. One part of the judge's speech remained in his memory. He repeated the words over again and again to himself as if trying to understand their inwardness: "In a sense there is no need that I should make this explanation in this way, but I do it because my conscience binds me to do so and because I wish, here and now, to ask my son's forgiveness."

In spite of himself he was moved. He realised what it must have cost the judge to utter such words; realised, too, the battle which he had fought during the night, before he had decided to make such a statement. "Because I wish, here and now, to ask my son's forgiveness."

Even yet he hated his father, and fought against the kinder feelings which surged up in his heart. He could not forget the dastardly deed which the man had committed before he was born: the base betrayal, the almost baser desertion, and those long years when his mother suffered in silence and solitude. For himself he did not care so much, but his mother he loved with all the strength of his nature. And a few lachrymose words could not atone for the misery of a lifetime. Still, they had their effect upon him. He called to mind, too, the look in the judge's eyes as he left the court, the simple words he had spoken: "Paul, my son, can you forgive me?"

He wanted to forgive him. A thousand forces which he could not understand seemed to be pleading with him. All the same, his heart remained adamant. The shadow of the gallows was still upon him, the weary weeks he had been lying in a dark cell, covered with ignominy and shame. His portrait had appeared in almost every scurrilous rag in the country. His name and history had been debated among those who always fastened upon every foul bit of garbage they could find. And in a way Paul traced everything to this man, Judge Bolitho; why, he did not know, but he could not help it.

Still, the happenings of that morning impressed him. They seemed to change his intellectual and spiritual whereabouts. They broke the hard crust of his nature. They appealed to him in a way which he thought impossible, and he wondered with a great wonder.

Everything was bewildering, staggering! Where was his mother? he wondered, and, more than all, where was Mary? The thought of the relationship between them almost drove him mad. He could not bear to think that he and Mary were children of the same father. It outraged something in his heart and mocked the dreams which he still dared to dream. Somehow, the battle for his own life which he had determined to fight more passionately than ever had sunk in the background now. It was not the only issue at stake. Other forces were liberated, other interests overwhelmed him.

Still, as he sat there, brooding and planning and dreaming, one thing became clear to his mind and heart—he would not die! He would not betray his mother, but he would fight for his own life. He was a prisoner, and he had refused, and would still refuse, to engage counsel to defend him or lawyers to gather evidence. He knew too well the danger of that. No, no, whatever happened to him, no breath of suspicion should fall upon his mother; but he would fight for his own life step by step, inch by inch. He would tear the circumstantial evidence to pieces. He would convince the jury that it was impossible to condemn him. Whatever else must be done, that must be done—he owed it to Mary.

Directly he thought of her his heart grew warm and tender. She believed in him. She had declared her faith in his innocence in spite of circumstantial evidence. She had laughed at it; she would laugh at it; and he would prove himself worthy of her faith. That at length became the dominant thought in his mind, the great motive power of his life.

Outside, the city of Manchester was stirred to its depths. Like lightning the news had passed from one lip to another of what had taken place that morning, while the reporters rushed to their various offices to transcribe their notes and to prepare copy for the papers. In an almost incredibly quick time the evening newspapers appeared. Newsboys were rushing through the streets shouting excitedly, and there was a mad scramble among the people to buy. The printing presses could not turn them out fast enough; the machinery was insufficient to meet the demands of the excited crowd. "Great murder trial!" shouted the boys. "Wonderful revelations!" "Judge Bolitho confesses that he is the prisoner's father!" "Tremendous excitement in court! Many women fainted!" and so on and so on. Factories became emptied as if by magic. At every corner crowds gathered. Business was at a standstill. The members of the Manchester Exchange had forgotten to think of the rise or fall of cotton. Everything was swallowed up in the news of the day.

Every telegraph office, too, was filled with eager people, and the means of communication from one part of the country to another was taxed to its utmost. Some few months before the Prime Minister of the country had come to Manchester to speak on a question which was exciting not only England but the whole Empire, but even then the telegraph wires had never been so congested with news as on that morning. In a little over an hour after the judge had left the court the London papers were full of it. Stirring headlines were on the placards of all the evening papers, and people bought them with almost the same avidity as they had bought them in Manchester. In a sense there seemed no reason why so much interest should have been aroused, but in another there was. Such a confession on the part of the judge was almost unprecedented, and as both Judge Bolitho and Paul Stepaside were so largely in the public eye, their sayings and doings seemed of the utmost importance. There was something romantic in it, too. A father sitting in judgment upon his own son, and not knowing until a few hours before that he was his son!

But Judge Bolitho was unconscious of all this. He never thought of it. When he left the court that morning he retired for a few minutes into the judge's room; but he could not remain there—he was too excited, too overwhelmed. He must do something. For now that he had made his confession the whole case appeared to him in a different way from what it had appeared to the public. They, in their wonder at the revelation of the facts which Judge Bolitho had made known, had almost ceased to think of the possible doom of the prisoner. But that became of supreme importance to him. In a way which no man can explain, his heart had gone out to his son. Nature had asserted itself. Years had become as nothing, past events seemed to lose their force, in the thought that Paul Stepaside was his son; and he feared for his future, he was in danger of his life. When the new judge was appointed, whoever it might be, he knew that he would consider this case impartially on the evidence given. Young Edward Wilson was murdered, there could be no doubt about that, and all the evidence pointed to Paul Stepaside.

When he reached the street he got into a cab, and was driven to his hotel, and there he thought out the whole case again. On the previous night, during the long hours when he was sleepless, it was a difficult battle he had to fight. It was then for him to make known his son to the world. Perhaps it had been a quixotic, almost a mad thing to do; but, although the suffering it entailed was horrible, he could not help doing it. He had fought a long battle over what he conceived to be his duty, and duty had won. Now that was over, and he had done his duty, the other problem faced him: how could he save his son? But again his mind refused to work. Nothing seemed clear and definite to him. The great feeling in his heart was hunger for his boy. He wanted to be by his side—nay, he wanted to kneel at his feet, to plead with him, to beg for his love.

He had not been long in his room before a look of determination came into his eyes. He had yielded to the overmastering feeling in his heart, and a few minutes later he was in the street again, on his way to Strangeways Gaol.

CHAPTER XXIV

FATHER AND SON

Daylight was now dying, although it was only a little after three o'clock. The sky was murky and smoke-laden, the air was utterly still. All round the centre of the city the people still discussed the events of the morning. Outside the Town Hall, in the Square, outside the Hospital, all down Market Street, along Corporation Street, the people stood in excited groups; and although the intense feeling which had been aroused in the morning had somewhat subsided, there was only one subject which was of paramount interest. Strange as it may seem, however, the district round Strangeways Gaol was comparatively deserted. The Assize Courts were no longer the centre of interest, even although they were the source from which everything emanated.

By this time Paul Stepaside had become almost in a state of torpor. He was suffering a reaction from the intense feeling which had possessed him that morning. When he had at first returned to his cell his mind was intensely alive, and a thousand plans were flashing through his brain, a thousand questions occurred to him which demanded an answer. Now, however, that numb, dull feeling which ever follows such experiences possessed him. After all, what mattered? Mary Bolitho could never be his wife, and if Fate had decided upon his death, die he must. Indeed, he did not seem to care very much. It seemed as if, for the time being, his nature had become almost paralysed. Of course, the experiences through which he was passing were only transitory. Presently his strength would assert itself again, and everything would become vivid and vital. And so he lay in a semi-comatose condition on the comfortless couch which had been provided for him, and the realities of the situation seemed far away. He had been lying thus for perhaps an hour, and was on the point of falling asleep, when there were footsteps in the corridor outside, and the door of his cell opened.

At first he felt almost annoyed at the intrusion. Why could they not let him rest? After all, everything was hopeless, and he did not very much care. Still, he turned his eyes towards the door, and when he saw that it was Judge Bolitho who entered, he started to his feet. His nerves grew tense again, and his mind active. The judge waited while the door was closed, and then turned to Paul. The older man looked around the little room like one trying to take in the situation, noted the light of the dying day as it penetrated the prison window, let his eyes rest upon the little couch where Paul had been lying, and made a survey of the items of the room as though it were his business to care for the prisoner's comfort.

Neither of them spoke for some seconds. Paul was silent because, in spite of everything, there seemed an insurmountable barrier between him and the man who had come to visit him; the judge, because he almost feared the son whom he had come to see.

Presently their eyes fastened upon each other's faces, and each scrutinised every feature as if trying to read the other's mind. It was Paul who spoke first.

"Why have you come here?" he asked.

"Surely you can guess?" was the reply. "I could not stay away. There was but one place to which I could go."

"You must know that I have nothing to say to you, even as you have nothing to say to me."

"You are wrong," replied the judge. "I have a great deal to say to you. How can it be otherwise? Have you no pity, my boy?"

Paul looked at him angrily. "Pity!" he replied, and there was a world of scorn in his voice.

The judge stood with bowed head. "Yes, I understand," and he spoke almost in a whisper. "I understand, and I deserve your scorn. I deserve it a thousand times over. But do not think I have not suffered, Paul."

Paul gave an impatient shrug and took two steps across his little cell.

"I am afraid I cannot give you a welcome befitting your lordship's position," he said. "As you will see, my ménage does not suggest very great luxury, and I think my servants are in a state of revolution. But will you not be seated?"

"You see," he went on, "when a man is being tried for murder, even although the English law says that every man must be regarded as innocent until he has been proved to be guilty, it does not provide any luxuries!"

"Paul, my boy, do you not know? Do you not understand?" said the judge. "Yes, I have been guilty of all those things of which you are thinking. I deserve all the contempt and all the anger you feel for me, but I come to you as a suppliant."

"For what?"

"For your forgiveness, your love. I am no longer your judge. If I were I could not be here. That's over now. Another will take my place. If I can do anything to atone, my boy, I will do it, if you will let me know what it is. Do you not see? Do you not understand?"

There was a world of pleading in his voice, while in his tired eyes was a look of yearning and longing that Paul could not understand.

"If you will tell me what you wish," said the younger man, "if you will explain to me your desires, perhaps—although, as you see, I am so curiously situated—I will do what I can to meet your wishes."

His voice was still hard, and there was no look in his eyes which suggested yielding or pity.

"I deserve nothing from you," replied the judge. "How can I? And yet I could not help coming. After all, you are my son!"

"How did you learn it?" asked Paul.

"Last night I went to see your mother," he replied. "She is staying at a little house not far from here. I received a letter asking me to go to a certain number in Dixon Street. It was couched in such language that I could not refuse. I went there, and I saw your mother. I had thought she was dead—at least, I had no reason to believe her alive. There I learnt everything. Since then there's been only one thought in my mind, only one longing in my heart——"

"And that?" said Paul.

"The one thought in my mind," said the judge, "has been that you are my son; the one longing in my heart has been that you would forgive me and love me. It took some time to shape itself, but there it is, and I have come. I cannot put my feelings into words properly. Words seem so poor, so inadequate! Can't you understand?"

The picture of his mother's face rose up before Paul's eyes as his father spoke, and with it the remembrance of the long years of pain, sorrow, and loneliness.

"Do you not understand?" asked the judge again.

"I understand my mother's sufferings," said Paul. "I understand how, when she was a young girl, forsaken, disgraced, she suffered agonies which cannot be put into words. I understand how she tramped all the way from Scotland to Cornwall, the home of her mother's people. I understand what she felt towards the man who betrayed her, especially when her only child was born in a workhouse, a nameless pauper! I understand that!"

The judge stood with bowed head. He might have been stunned by some heavy blow. He rocked to and fro, and for a moment Paul thought he was going to fall.

"Yes," he said presently, "I deserve it all. Even the circumstances which I might plead do not extenuate me."

"What were they?" asked Paul.

For a moment he had become interested in the past. He wanted to know what this man had to tell him, what excuses he had to make.

"You won my mother as Douglas Graham. Whence the change of name? I suppose you masqueraded in Scotland as Douglas Graham because you did not wish your true name to be known? You're a villain, and you thought if you called yourself Bolitho that villainy could not be traced. I am not one who quotes rag-tags of religious sentiment as a rule, but there are two sayings which occur to my mind just now. One is, 'Be sure your sin will find you out,' and another, 'Though the mills of God grind slowly, yet they grind exceeding small.' It may be all nonsense in most cases, but just for the moment it seems as though there were something in it!"

"Paul," said the judge, "as I have said, I know I deserve nothing at your hands save the scorn and contempt which you evidently feel for me, but is there no means whatever of bridging over this awful gulf? I would give my life to do so!"

"No," said Paul. "I am no theologian, and yet I cannot close my eyes to the fact that sin and penalty go together—only, the injustice of it is that the penalty not only falls on the head of the one who sins but on the head of the innocent."

"Then you can never forgive me?" said the judge, and there was a world of pleading in his voice.

"If your lordship will just think a moment," said Paul. "You have asked me to try and understand you; will you try and understand me? I am here in a prison cell, accused of murder. Possibly I shall be hanged—although I mean to fight for my life," this he added grimly, with set teeth and flashing eyes. "I am twenty-five years of age, and it is not pleasant to think that one's life shall end in such a way! Let me remind you of something, Mr. Justice Bolitho, and, in reminding you of it, perhaps you will see that I have no reason to play the part of the yielding and affectionate son. I was born in a workhouse. My only name has been the name given to me because my mother was found lying near a little hamlet called Stepaside. I was educated a pauper. The parish paid the expenses of my learning a trade. When I was seventeen my mother told me the story of her life, told me of my father's villainy. What such a story would do for most men I don't know, but this it did for me: it robbed me of everything most dear. It killed in me all faith. It destroyed in me all belief in God and Providence. When I went out into the world it seemed to me that the only legacy I had was a legacy of hatred for the man who had robbed my mother of her youth and of her honour, and me of my boyhood and of all the things that make youth beautiful. I need not tell you my story since. You know it too well. But, if I am hard and bitter, you have made me what I am. Consciously or unconsciously, yours has been the hand that has moulded me. Do you wonder, then, that I cannot respond to this appeal for filial affection—that I cannot clasp my arms round your neck like a hero in a fourth-rate melodrama? When you rob a man of his faith in human nature and God, you rob him of everything, you dry up the fountains of tenderness."

For a moment there was a silence between them, and then Paul went on: "But where's my mother now? You say you saw her last night. What did she tell you? What did you tell her? Do you know what has become of her?"

"I scarcely know what I did tell her," replied the judge. "I was so overwhelmed when she told me that you were my son that I was scarcely capable of thinking. Besides, she seemed in no humour for asking questions. She felt very bitterly towards me, naturally, and my mind was numbed; I could not think."

"Perhaps you will tell me?" said Paul presently.

"I will tell you everything that you ask, my boy."

"Then tell me why you masqueraded in Scotland under a false name? Tell me why you left my mother on the day you married her."

"Douglas Graham was my name," he replied. "I had no thought of masquerading."

"Then why have you become Bolitho?" asked Paul. "My mother told me that on the night of your wedding day you read a letter which had been given to you which seemed to surprise you very much. Tell me the meaning of it."

The judge gave no answer, and again he rocked to and fro in his misery. "Paul, my son," he said. "I cannot!"

Again the two men looked at each other steadily. Paul's mind was active again now.

"You know what your confession meant this morning," he said at length. "You declared to the court that I was your son, your lawful son; that my mother was your lawful wife. But what of Mary? Tell me that. You know what I wrote to you concerning her. I asked you to allow me to try and win her as my wife, not knowing of the relations which existed between us—not knowing anything. You know, too, the cruel reply you sent to me—a reply which contained an insult in every line, in every word. But let that pass. If my mother is your lawful wife, what of Mary's mother? Will you answer me that?"

Still the judge stood with bowed head. It seemed as though he had been struck a death-blow. More than once he essayed to speak, but no words passed his lips. It seemed an eternity to Paul before the judge spoke again.

"At least I tried to do you justice, Paul," he stammered. "I tried to do—that is, I tried to proclaim to the world that your mother was a lawful wife."

"Yes," cried the young man, and his voice was hard with anger. "And do you not see what it means? It means that Mary's name is tarnished. For your sin and your punishment I do not care so much; but what of her? Think of the stories which gossiping tongues will be telling about her just now! Think of the sneering lies, the scornful gibes which will be uttered about her! My disgrace did not matter so much; I had become used to it. But what of her?"

"Stop, stop, Paul! In pity stop! Great God! Yes, it's true; but I did not realise this."

"Then the name of Bolitho is assumed," said Paul. "It is not your true name at all. Will you tell me the meaning of this?"

"I cannot," said the judge. "I know what you must be thinking, Paul, but I cannot do it."

"Then," cried the young man angrily, "it was cruel to her to make the confession you did this morning. I would a thousand times rather suffer myself—ay, and see my mother suffer, too—than see her suffer. And this is what you've done. Had you not better go away and leave me alone? Had you not better recant what you said this morning, and say you spoke while your mind was unhinged?"

"Paul," said the judge, "will you let me sit down on your couch here? I realise the truth of every word you have said, although you have spoken cruelly. Perhaps I did wrong in coming to you; but I could not help it. Believe me, my son, much as you have suffered, it is nothing to what I suffer at this moment."

There was no whine in his voice, no appeal to pity. It was a simple statement of fact, and for the first time Paul had a feeling in his heart which he could not understand. After all, the man before him was his father, and his haggard face, his bent form, his bloodshot eyes, all told of the agony through which he was passing.

"Son," said the judge, "some time, at all events, I hope I may be able to make known the things which you have asked, but I cannot trust myself to try and do so now. Will you let me be quiet for a few minutes, my boy? I want to think. And will you try and forget this part of the story?"

The judge sat down on the couch, while Paul, leaning against the prison wall, watched him. Minute after minute passed away, and then the judge spoke again.

"Paul," he said. "Are you guilty of this murder?"

"I would rather not discuss it with you," said Paul.

"My son," said the judge, "you do not believe what I have told you. To you my words are a mockery. But I love you like my own life. Even now, if I could die in your place I would be glad. At any rate I may be able to help you. Mary doesn't believe you are guilty. She told me so last night. I can speak freely of this now, for I am no longer the one who shall sit in judgment on you, and I want to help you."

Paul looked at his father and wondered what was passing in his mind; wondered, too, how much he knew. He could not tell him of his suspicions, could not even hint at the fact that he believed his mother was guilty of the murder for which he was accused. He knew of Judge Bolitho's reputation; knew, too, that he would eagerly fasten upon everything he learnt and follow it to its logical sequence.

In spite of everything, however, a change seemed to be coming over their relationship. The feeling of half an hour before had somewhat passed away. The sensations caused by their first meeting had become less powerful.

"Whatever else I can do, Paul," said the judge, "I want to help you in this. Can't you trust me?"

Paul was silent. He was afraid to answer directly, afraid lest the haunting fear in his heart would become known. Then, in a way he could not understand, he found himself talking with his father more freely, found himself telling something of his life in Brunford, until by and by he realised that he had been subjected to a close examination. It seemed to him as though it had become a battle of wits between him and his father; and although he was angry with himself afterwards, he knew he had disclosed many things which he had sworn should never pass his lips. Still, he had said nothing definite. He had never even hinted at the possibility of his mother's guilt.

"If you could only trust me!" said the judge at length. "If you would tell me exactly what happened, I might even yet be able to save you."

"Do you not believe me guilty, then?" said Paul.

"Mary does not," replied the judge.

"I know that," was Paul's answer. "And for her sake I mean to fight for my own life."

"Even although you did this thing?"

"Even if I did it!"

"But have you any evidence to add that shall tell in your favour—anything that will destroy the impression which has been made?"

"Do you believe they will hang me if I don't?"

"I mean to say, as far as circumstantial evidence is concerned, the case is terribly black against you, and the jury must act upon evidence given. And, oh, Paul, Paul! Can't you realise? Can't you understand what I feel? If I must tell the truth, one of the reasons I decided to say what I did this morning in the court was that I might be free to try and save your life. Will you not tell me what is in your mind?"

Paul shook his head. "You have wormed a great many things out of me," he said, "which I did not mean to tell; still, I think I have been a match for you."

"Don't you realise, Paul, what your life is to me? Can't you understand what the knowledge that you are my son means to me? Don't you believe that I would give everything I possess, everything I am, to bring you happiness? Oh! I know what you feel, and I do not wonder at it. I know, too, what you must be thinking about me now, and I cannot help myself. But, Paul, if there's a possibility, let me save you. Tell me the truth—the whole truth!"

"You would not thank me for doing so," replied Paul grimly.

For a little while there was another silence between them, then the judge seemed to change his tactics.

"I think you do wrongly, my son, not to employ counsel. I do not doubt that your brains are quite as good as anyone's you might engage to defend you; but you cannot understand the methods of cross-examination as a trained barrister can. You do not know the hundred weapons he can use in your defence."

"I think I know," replied Paul.

Both of them had become calm by this time, and each talked in an almost unrestrained manner. The judge was no longer almost overwhelmed by that through which he had been passing, and Paul had seemingly, to a very large extent, forgotten the bitterness which he had felt at the beginning of their interview.

"May I come to see you again?" asked Judge Bolitho.

"To what end?" asked Paul.

"Because I love you, my son. Because I long to be near you. Because I want to win your love; to hear you say you forgive me. I have sinned against you; but, believe me, I have done all in my power to atone. I must go now, but I shall be thinking for you, hoping for you, working for you, praying for you."

There was something so humble and so sincere in the tones of his voice that, in spite of the past, Paul could not longer repel him.

"Won't you shake hands?" he said. "Won't you tell me that you will try to forgive me?—only try, Paul!"

But Paul stood as still as a statue. He felt himself yielding to his father's pleadings, and he was angry with himself because of it. And yet he could not destroy the tender feelings which were coming into his heart.

"Will nothing move you, my son—nothing?"

Still Paul did not reply. He was afraid to speak. He felt as though, if he uttered a word, it would end in a sob. They had been together more than an hour, and in the near distance a clock began to chime.

"I must go now," said the judge. "But I shall come again. I shall never cease coming until I have won your love. Paul, I cannot live without it now! Look into my eyes, my son; can you not see? Can you not understand?"

In spite of himself Paul did as his father had told him, and realised how the proud man was humbling himself. He saw the lines of pain upon his face, saw, too, the look of infinite yearning and tenderness in his eyes; and he felt that his own were filled with tears. But still he hardened himself and made no sign.

The judge threw his arms round Paul's neck.

"Paul, my son, my son! Forgive me!" he said, "and love me!"

And Paul did not repulse him, even although he did not yield to his father's entreaties.

There was a sound of footsteps in the corridor, the noise of the key turning in the lock. A minute later Judge Bolitho had left the cell; and then Paul threw himself on the couch, while his frame shook with mighty sobs.

Judge Bolitho left Strangeways Gaol without speaking a word. In spite of everything he felt his visit had not been in vain. There was a joy in his heart for which he could not account.

"Some day he will know," he said to himself. "Some day he will know, if he lives! And I must save him. I do not believe he is guilty—he cannot be. He is hiding something from me. He is shielding someone. I must find out."

It was quite dark by now, and it was some time before he found a cab. A little later, however, he was back in his hotel again. It seemed to him as though his powers of action were coming back. He was no longer bewildered and overwhelmed as he had been.

"Is Miss Bolitho here?" he said to a servant who answered his call.

"No, my lord. She left this morning."

"Left this morning?"

"Yes, my lord."

"Did she leave no message?"

"No, my lord."

He remembered what she had said, and began to realise.

"All right," he said. "Will you bring me a cup of tea?"

A few minutes later he was in the street again. This time he used no conveyance, but walked rapidly towards Deansgate. Ere long he found himself in the region where he had been on the previous night, and, finding his way into Dixon Street, he went to the house where Paul's mother had met him. When he knocked at the door, however, it was answered by a stranger.

"Is Mrs. Stepaside in?"

"No; she left here to-day."

"She's coming back again, I suppose?"

"No; I do not think so."

"Did she say where she was going?"

"I think she has gone back to Brunford, but I cannot tell."

"She left no message concerning her intentions?"

"No, she left nowt."

He was about to turn away when evidently a thought struck him suddenly.

"Had she any visitors to-day?" he asked. "Has a young lady been to see her?"

"Ay; a young woman came this morning about ten o'clock."

"Did you know her?"

"Nay, she was not from these parts. She was dressed i' furs and all that sort of thing."

"I see," said the judge. "Thank you very much."

He returned to the hotel, and began studying a timetable.

"Yes, I think I understand," he said to himself.

CHAPTER XXV

MR. JUSTICE BRANSCOMBE

For some days after Judge Bolitho had made his confession in court no further steps were taken in the trial of Paul. Another judge had to sit upon the case, and this meant delay. What took place in certain judicial circles I have no knowledge. It is for me simply to relate what actually resulted. Undoubtedly, the judge's unprecedented confession caused some stir in the realms of legal authority. Many forms had doubtless to be complied with, and, as a consequence, Paul had to wait one weary day after another without anything publicly taking place and without any knowledge of what was being done.

During this time not one of the three people whom he expected again came to see him. After the interview which I have tried to describe in the last chapter the judge, in spite of what he had said, failed to seek admission again to Paul's cell. As for Mary Bolitho or his mother, he had no knowledge concerning them. No word was sent to him, and as a consequence day succeeded day in the dull, dreary monotony of a Lancashire prison.

Not that he was without visitors. Two lawyers who had been friends of his came to see him, and each tried to change his mind in relation to the conduct of his own defence. They felt sure, they said, that they could do better for him than he had done for himself, and each pleaded with him to allow them to prepare his case and to place it in the hands of some leading counsel. But Paul persistently refused. He knew that if he trusted in them he must state certain facts which, although they might release him, would throw suspicion of the strongest nature upon his mother. He wanted to live in spite of everything. But even although the worst came to the worst, he would rather suffer the extreme penalty of the deed of which he was accused than that the mother who had suffered all for him and done all for him should be dragged before the eyes of the world as it had been his lot to be. The interviews with these lawyers were long and trying, and while he did not yield to them in the slightest degree, they were not without advantage to him. They helped him to arrange his plans with more clearness, and they let drop many hints which he felt sure would be of service to him. When he had entered upon the trial everything had been confused; he could not decide upon any method of procedure. But now things began to take shape. He felt as if he had had some experience, and that he would not enter upon the fight for his life without some knowledge of the weapons he had to use.

Presently the news came to him that his re-trial was to come on, and one morning he was taken from his cell, as in the first instance, accompanied by two policemen, who led him into the prisoner's dock.

His experiences had left their mark upon him. He was still scrupulously precise about his dress, and every detail of his person was attended to as carefully as if he had arranged to make a set speech in the House of Commons. But no one could help remarking on the change which had passed over him. He looked thin and haggard; in his eyes was an expression of weariness; his skin was grey and almost parchment-like; and, instead of seeming to be without nerves, as on the previous occasions, his hands trembled as they rested upon the rail in front of him. But no one could suggest that he asked for pity. There was still the same proud look upon his face, the same expression of defiance. He stood perfectly straight and upright, too, and seemed to regard both judge and jury with a feeling of contempt. In addition to all this there was something in his square jaw and set teeth which denoted a grim determination. Here was not a man who was going to deliver himself over to the butcher without a protest. Everyone felt that he would fight, and fight to the very last.

Although he had been told that it would be so, he did not realise until that moment that the trial would have to commence de novo. He looked at the judge with keen interest, and noted the difference between him and the one who had last sat there. He could not help remembering, too, what had taken place. The things he had heard had shaken his life to its very foundation; he who had regarded himself as fatherless had found his father, and this fact had altered everything. Perhaps, too, Judge Branscombe, who from his elevation looked at Paul, felt this. In any case, it was evident he had a keen interest in him. He noted his every movement, marked his every feature, and formed his impressions concerning the man who was there for trial.

Judge Branscombe was utterly different from his predecessor. As we have said, Judge Bolitho was florid, somewhat heavy featured, in spite of the fact that his face was cast in a classical mould. He was fresh coloured, too, and suggested a bon vivant. Judge Branscombe, on the other hand, was a little man, with small, watchful eyes and sharp-pointed features. He was a lawyer to his very finger-tips, keen, penetrating, and a master of detail. He was a judge who did not deal with broad issues. He dealt with facts, hard, incontrovertible facts, rather than what might lie beyond them. What might be called "internal evidence" had little weight with him. What any prisoner might be likely to do under a given set of circumstances had little or no weight with him. It was what the prisoner had been known to do that he fastened upon and held to with the tenacity of a terrier. Not a cruel man by any means, but in a sense a little man; a man of keen intellect but of narrow outlook; a man who followed out a certain set of circumstances to their logical issue regardless of all other probabilities which might appear. Such was the judge who sat to hear Paul's case that day. Such was the man who in time would have to advise the jury concerning their verdict.

Paul was not long in summing up the nature of Judge Branscombe, and he felt sure that under his guidance the trial would more than ever rest upon circumstantial evidence. This man was not a reader of character, not one who studied probabilities, therefore he felt his battle would be hard to fight.

The court was again crowded to its utmost capacity, and the excitement which had prevailed at the first trial had not lessened in the slightest degree. Everyone there knew of what had taken place and realised the reason for the change of judges. All sorts of rumours had been afloat concerning what had become of Judge Bolitho, what had been said in high places, and what the result would be in his future career. The whole affair had been the talk of the country. People had come from afar to witness the outcome of this strange case, and, as on the previous occasion, the atmosphere was tense with excitement and keen with expectation.

Again the clerk of the assizes rose and read the indictment, and again the judge turned to Paul and asked him whether he were guilty or not guilty.

"Not guilty, my lord," he replied.

Everyone noted that there was a tone of defiance in his voice which they had missed on the first occasion. He found himself examining the jurymen. As far as he could judge, they were of the same calibre—unimaginative, commonplace, and, to a large extent, self-satisfied men. He thought, however, that they looked toward him with an expression of sympathy which he had not noted before. Perhaps they, too, had been influenced by the happenings of the previous trial.

Then Mr. Bakewell rose and said, "I am for the prosecution, my lord."

"Who is for the defence?" asked the judge.

And again there was deathly silence.

"Have you not engaged anyone to defend you?" said Judge Branscombe, turning to Paul.

"No one," replied Paul. "I wish to defend myself."

The judge uttered an exclamation of surprise. It might seem as though he knew nothing of the previous trial. He was a lawyer of the very strictest class. What had been was nothing to him. He was there to begin the trial at the beginning, and he would act as though nothing had taken place and as though he were utterly ignorant of what had been discussed throughout the whole land.

"I strongly advise you to accept the service of someone to undertake your defence," he said; and he mentioned one or two names of those whom he felt sure would be willing to act for him. To Paul this seemed like a repetition of a formula. It was all artificial, unreal.

"No, my lord," he replied. "I intend to defend myself."

"Then you will know," said the judge, "that you have the right to cross-examine the witnesses."

"Thank you, my lord."

Again Mr. Bakewell rose for the prosecution. His speech was very nearly a repetition of the one he had delivered on the previous occasion, but for some reason or another it did not have the same effect as during its first deliverance. The jury were acquainted with the facts that had been discussed a hundred times in a hundred different ways during the last few days. Still, there could be no doubt about it, the case looked very black for Paul when it concluded. The long feud which was known to exist between Paul and the murdered man; the many threats which had been uttered; the quarrel which had taken place on the night when Paul was elected member for Brunford; the open insults which the murdered man had hurled at the prisoner; the scene which had taken place on the night before the murder, and the threat he had made to avenge the injury. Mr. Bakewell also dwelt upon the excited state in which Paul was when he returned to the house, as would be proved by the evidence of the servants; of his going upstairs to the landing outside the servants' quarters at midnight; of his going out into the night alone; of his return early in the morning, pale and haggard; then, as the crowning evidence of all, the knife, which was known to be Paul's, which had been lying in his office—an office which was always locked when the owner of it was not present—the sharp, murderous weapon was found in the body of the murdered man, struck from behind.

All these things Mr. Bakewell described, and spoke with telling emphasis on the main features of the case. Possibly he knew the character of the judge to whom he addressed himself, and he had so arranged his speech that the chain of evidence was apparently complete. When he sat down a great pent-up sigh arose, not only from the jurymen, but from the excited spectators. Although during the early part of what he had said the emotion was not so great as during the first trial, yet, as he summed up the case for the prosecution, fastened one link to another of the chain of events, and declared in solemn tones that the witnesses he had to call would prove everything he had said to the minutest detail, it seemed as though they expected the judge to put on the black cap and to utter the terrible words which have to be uttered on every condemned prisoner.

Paul, however, was not greatly moved by Mr. Bakewell's speech. He listened keenly, attentively, to all he had to say, made a note, and that was all.

It is not my purpose to follow the trial step by step. Those who care to do so can turn up the files of the Manchester papers, where they can find it in every detail; but in this history I do not purpose dwelling at length upon the many examinations that were made and on the voluminous evidence given. As far as Paul was concerned, he did not endeavour to cross-examine many of the witnesses. As far as he could see, their evidence was in the main true. They had given a statement of facts, and he felt that it would be utter waste of time to deal with details which might show discrepancies, but which were, as far as he could judge, of but little importance. He wanted to fasten upon the main features of the case, and then, without in the slightest degree hinting at anything which would connect his mother with the murder of Ned Wilson, to prove how utterly improbable, if not impossible, it was, that he should be guilty of the deed of which he was accused.

Still, he did cross-examine some of the witnesses, and it was evident by the look in the judge's eyes that he appreciated the cleverness of the cross-examination. Indeed, so successful was Paul that on more than one occasion he made this keen-minded lawyer—more lawyer, indeed, than man—realise that circumstantial evidence might be false, and that a jury would assume tremendous responsibility in passing judgment of death upon anyone upon such evidence. Especially was this true in the case of the examination of the murdered man's father. He, as on the opening day of the first trial, was the most important witness, and after Mr. Bakewell had elicited from him practically the same admissions as had been given on the previous occasion, Paul rose to cross-examine him.

"Mr. Wilson," he said, "you have stated more than once that beside myself your son had no other enemy. Do you still adhere to this?"

"Certainly."

"Do you mean to say that during his life he has never gained the ill-will or the enmity of anyone besides me?"

"Not that I know of."

"You insist on this?"

"Yes. That is, no enmity of importance."

"What do you mean by importance?"

"I mean any enmity that would lead anyone to murder him."

"I want to ask you further questions about this. One of the witnesses who gave evidence concerning the quarrel between your son and myself on the night prior to his death is called Scott, is he not?"

"Yes."

"John Scott?"

"Yes."

"John had a son called Nick; is that not so?"

"Yes."

"Some three years ago he had a quarrel with your son?"

"Yes."

"It ended in Nick Scott being sent to prison. Is that true?"

"It is true that Nick Scott was sent to prison, but it had nothing whatever to do with his quarrel with my son. That was about a very trivial affair."

"But did not Nick Scott say that he'd pay your son out if he had to swing for it?"

"There was some such rumour, I believe. I paid no attention to it."

"I am taking this line, my lord," continued Paul, "because of the witness's evidence. He says that his son had no enemy in Brunford. I am going to prove to you that he had."

The judge nodded, while Paul again turned to the witness.

"You still adhere to the fact, then, do you, that your son had no enemy beside myself?"

"I did not think of Scott, because he was not in the country; besides, it was of no importance. Men often utter threats like that."

"It pains me to bring up another case," said Paul. "But please remember I am here accused of murder. Do you know a woman named Mary Bradshaw? She lives in Clough Street."

"I have heard of such a woman; yes."

"Your son was once very friendly with her. Had that woman no reason to hate him?"

"That was years ago."

Paul asked many questions concerning this woman which I will not set down here, because they were necessarily of a sordid nature, but which went to prove that although in neither case could these people have had anything to do with the murder, Ned Wilson was not universally beloved, as his father had stated, but bitterly hated.

"You have admitted to me," went on Paul at length, "that he was believed to have wronged two people, and that both of them had reason to bear him enmity. Might there not have been others of whom you never heard?"

"Of course my son was thirty years of age, and he lived his own life. At the same time it is universally admitted that he was respected in the town and beloved by practically everyone."

"With the exception of these people, who, as you have admitted, uttered dark threats against him?"

At this the witness was silent.

"We will now go on to the question of the knife," said Paul, "concerning which you have made so much." And he dealt with this question in a similar way to that with which he had dealt with it on the previous occasion. The tendency of his questions was to show how unlikely it was that he, whom the witness still called a clever, scheming, cold-blooded villain, should use a knife known to be his, a knife that had been seen on his office desk, and leave it in the murdered man's body, knowing that all the time it could be traced to himself.

"There is still something more important," said Paul. "From the evidence given it is known that I parted from your son at twilight on the night before the murder."

"Yes."

"On that occasion he struck me down when I was walking away from him. The blow almost deprived me of my senses, and I lay stunned for some seconds."

"Yes."

"When I rose I made no attack on him."

"No."

"But I uttered a threat that I would be even with him."

"Yes. I regard your words as practically a threat of murder."

"Do you know what your son was doing between that time and the time when he was supposed to meet with the person who murdered him?"

"No; I cannot tell."

"You say he came into the house where two letters awaited him; those two letters he read, and then threw them into the fire. Do you know what was in those letters?"

"No; I have no idea."

"You saw the envelopes. In what handwriting were they—that of a man or a woman?"

"I did not take particular notice, but I thought one was written by a man and the other by a woman."

"Just so! and he threw these letters into the fire?"

"Yes."

"Did he seem to be pleased at seeing them?"

The witness was silent for a second, then he said: "It is difficult to tell."

"That is not an answer to my question. Did he not show anger, or at least annoyance, as he read one of these letters?"

"Well, perhaps he did."

"Thank you. Now then, I want to ask you this: You say he went out after dinner that night. Did he tell you where he was going?"

"No. I thought he was going to his club."

"You know, too, that he did not go to his club. That has come out in the evidence."

"I am told that he was not seen there."

"Now then for the question that I regard of such importance. Do you know of any woman likely to write to your son and ask him to meet her?"

Again the witness looked confused. "I think the question unfair," he said. "One might have all sorts of suspicions, but it would be wrong to give expression to them, as I have no definite knowledge."

"I must insist on the question, my lord," said Paul, turning to the judge.

"Certainly," replied the judge. "It has a strong bearing upon the case."

"Then I must repeat the question," said Paul, turning to the witness.

Whereupon Mr. Wilson admitted that he had more than once seen his son in company with a woman whom he did not know.

"Might it not have been her letter that night?"

"Of course, I cannot tell," replied the witness. "Everything I say upon the question is pure surmise, and I can substantiate nothing."

"Was the writing on the envelope that of an educated woman?"

"No, I should say not; but it might have been disguised."

"Thank you," said Paul. "You say you saw your son in company with this woman. Where did you see them?"

"At some little distance from the Coal Clough Golf Links."

"Did they seem on good terms?"

"I cannot say. I should not think so."

"Was the woman angry with him?"

"She might have been."

"You judged that she was?"

"Yes; I thought she was."

"Now to return to the night of the murder. You say that your son did not tell you where he was going?"

"No."

"That you thought he was going to his club?"

"I thought it probable; yes."

"Don't you think it probable that he went to meet this woman?"

"I don't know."

"You see how important the question is. You say your son left the house at ten o'clock that night, and that he was not seen until the following morning, when he was discovered by the policeman, murdered. According to the doctor's evidence he had been dead some little time before that. Thus there are several hours to account for. Have you no idea where he was during those hours?"

"None at all beside what I have told you."

This part of the examination continued for some time; though beyond what I have written nothing of importance was elicited. But the evidence given created an impression which could not be gainsaid.

Paul had made it abundantly evident that the murdered man was not without enemies, as had been so strongly insisted, and he had also raised doubts concerning what he had been doing between the hours when Wilson left his father's house and the time of the murder.

In this cross-examination, however, Paul was much handicapped. He dared not refer to the conversation which had taken place between himself and Ned Wilson during their quarrel, for fear of in any way bringing Mary's name into evidence. Up to the present, no one thought of connecting her with the matter in any definite way, and Paul was determined that, whatever took place, this must be avoided. Neither could he remove the difficulty of the knife without connecting it with his mother. As we have said, she was in his office on the morning of the day of his quarrel with Wilson, and was, as far as he could see, the only one who could have obtained possession of it. Still, he had made the most of his opportunities, and although on this murderous weapon the issues of the trial seemed largely to rest, he made more than one juryman feel that he was not the kind of man to use it in such a fashion and then leave it as evidence against himself.

During his cross-examination of the next witness, too, he further destroyed the statement that Wilson was a man without enemies.

John Scott was one of the two men who had witnessed the quarrel between himself and Wilson. Mr. Bakewell examined him very closely.

"You say," he said, "that you saw the prisoner and the murdered man together?"

"Yes."

"You heard angry words pass between them, but you could not tell what they were?"

"No."

"You saw the prisoner walk away, and as he was doing so, saw Mr. Edward Wilson strike him with a stick?"

"Yes; he knocked him down."

"Will you tell us what followed?"

"I saw Mr. Stepaside get up, and I thought he was going to attack Wilson. There was a look of murder in his eyes, as I thought, but he didn't do owt. He simply said that he'd pay him out for this, or summat of that sort. And I said to my mate, 'Stepaside'll kill Wilson for that.'"

This evidence, which was given in the rough Lancashire dialect, was nevertheless very impressive. The witness and Mr. Bakewell made the jury see, as if in a picture, the two men quarrelling, Wilson striking an angry blow, and Paul breathing out murder against him.

"John Scott," said Paul, when he rose to cross-examine him, "you've known me a good many years?"

"Ay; I've known you ever since you came to Brunford."

"You know the kind of man I am?"

"Ay; I think so."

"You say you saw me walk away from Wilson, who lifted his stick and struck me down?"

"Ay, I did."

"After I had been stunned for two or three minutes I rose to my feet?"

"Ay."

"We were in a lonely place at that time, and you say I was unaware of your presence?"

"Yes; that is so."

"Do you not think if I meant to murder Wilson that I should not have done it at the time when my anger was aroused, rather than wait several hours?"

"Weel, I should think so; but there's no knowing."

"Just so. Now I want to ask you another question. As you know, it has been stated many times that the murdered man had no enemy in Brunford beside myself: would you say that was true?"

"No, I shouldn't. My Nick hated him like he hated the devil. He were a kind-hearted lad, but Ned Wilson treated him terribly bad. Nick is out of the country now, but there's no doubt he has a grudge against Wilson."

"Do you know of any others in Brunford who have a similar feeling towards him?"

"Weel, I know that there was no love lost between Ned Wilson and lots of people."

This led to many more questions and answers which went to destroy the illusion that the murdered man had been universally popular. And for some time after that the trial seemed to go in Paul's favour rather than against him.

Then it seemed as though a bolt came from the blue. A man was called into the box who had not appeared in the previous trial. He was a collier, who appeared in a great state of nervousness.

"You were returning to Brunford on the night of the murder, and had to pass near Howden Clough?"

"Ay; I wur."

"What time did you pass near Howden Clough?"

"It must have been about five o'clock in the morning. But I'm noan sure, and it wur dark."

"What were you doing there?"

"I had been to see my lad, who lives over Rakes Royd. He wur married twelve months ago, and his missis sent me word that he were very poorly. I stayed wi' him most o' th' night, and then walked back so's to be in time for my wark."

"And you say you think it was about five o'clock when you passed Howden Clough?"

"Ay, it wur."

"Tell the jury what you saw."

"Well, I were going along th' road, when I thought I heerd somebody moaning. I wondered what it could be, and I stopped still. I wur in the lane not far from the big 'ouse, and I heerd footsteps."

"Was it a man's voice or a woman's voice you heard?"

"I thought it were a man's voice."

"Well, go on."

"I had not been standing still above 'aaf a minute when I see'd a man coming toward me. He come close to where I was, and then he stopped still."

"Did he see you?"

"Nay; he couldna see me, for I was standing close t' th' edge, and he was looking straight on."

"Did you recognise who it was?"

"Ay, I did. It were Maaster Paul Stepaside."

"You are certain of this?"

"Ay, I'm certain."

"But you said it was dark, just now. How could you be certain who it was in the dark?"

"Well, it was noan so dark as all that, and as I had been walking four mile, my eyes had got accustomed to the darkness; and more than that, there was a break in the clouds just then, and I think there must have been a bit of moonlight. Anyhow, I can swear it were Mr. Paul Stepaside."

"Did he speak to you?"

"Nay; he never spoke to me. As I told you, he never seed me, but were looking straight on."

"Did he seem calm, self-possessed?"

"Nay; all t' other way. He looked like a man beside hissen."

"Did you hear him say anything?"

"Ay, I did. I heerd him say, 'My God! I never thought it would come to this,' or summat like that. I won't be sure as to the exact words, but it was summat like that."

"Did he stand beside you long?"

"Nay, not more than while one could count ten, perhaps. Then he rushed off, and he were muttering to hissen; but what he were saying aw could noan make out."

"And that was all?"

"Ay, that was all."

"But you did not tell this at the inquest."

"Nay; I didn't want to be dragged into it. Besides, I didn't know what it meant; but I did mention it to my missis, and my missis mentioned it to the wife of a policeman, who told it to her 'usband; and that's how it come out."

As may be imagined, the effect of this evidence was remarkable. It supplied a kind of link in the chain. It was now proved beyond question that Paul was in the vicinity of the murder very near to the time when it actually took place. And in the face of it all, all that had been said in his favour seemed to be as nothing. Not only was it Paul's knife that was found in Wilson's body, but Paul, although he had not been seen to strike the blow, had been seen close to the spot where the murder took place almost at the time of its actual occurrence, and he had been heard to utter words such as a guilty man would have been likely to utter.

At this time the court adjourned, and all felt that Paul's doom was sealed.

CHAPTER XXVI

PAUL'S DEFENCE

The next morning the trial was resumed, and to the surprise of many it did not come to an end that day. Many other witnesses were called which at first were unthought of, and thus the case was dragged out to what seemed to Paul an interminable length. On the third day, however, the examinations were concluded, and Mr. Bakewell rose to address the jury on the evidence which had been given. Some spoke of his speech afterwards as one of the finest that had ever been delivered in Manchester, while others declared it to be devilish in its cleverness, but that, in view of the fact that the prisoner would have no one to defend him, it was unfair. One eminent counsel, who would gladly have taken Paul's case, said that it was the custom of counsel for prosecution in the case of murder to seek to give absolute fair play to the prisoner, and to suppress nothing which might tell in his favour, but that it seemed to be the set purpose of Mr. Bakewell to secure a sentence of death for Paul, just as he would try to secure a verdict in favour of any client for whom he was trying to obtain damages. But this was mentioned in private, and could, of course, have no weight with the jury. Certain it is that he made a very strong case against Paul. He opened his speech with the usual remarks about the seriousness of the case before them and the difficulty he had in approaching it in the right spirit. He also admitted that Paul was a young man who bore a good character in the town, and had so far secured public favour as to be rewarded with the highest measure of confidence with which any town could reward him. But having said all that, it was his duty to deal with the facts which had been brought before them, and it was for the jury to say whether, in the face of that evidence, the prisoner was not guilty of the terrible deed of which he was accused. He referred to the fact that the prisoner had chosen to defend himself, and as a consequence lessened hid chances of acquittal, but they had also to consider the inwardness of that fact. What was the prisoner's reason for being undefended? It was not that he could not afford to obtain the most eminent counsel at the criminal bar, or because he was not advised by the judge to secure such counsel. An innocent man had nothing to hide. It was only the guilty who sought to shelter himself behind silence. He would like to testify to the prisoner's ability in cross-examination and of his power to nullify the force of certain evidence which told against him. But they had not to deal with sophistries. They had to deal with the hard facts which had been submitted to them. These facts he enumerated one by one, dealing with the evidence which had been given in support of them. He admitted that there might be certain difficulties in their way, certain things hard to explain, and which could only be explained by the prisoner. Still, certain facts remained—facts upon which they would have to judge. Presently came the summing-up of his speech, and it was here that Mr. Bakewell justified the reputation he had won as one of the cleverest of criminal lawyers. Everything in Paul's disfavour was set before them in cold, clear, terse language. One point after another was emphasised with terrible precision, and so great was the impression made that it seemed as though both judge and jury could see only with his eyes. All the things which appeared as difficulties were apparently removed. The facts of the case pointed to one man as the murderer of Edward Wilson, and that one man was Paul Stepaside. Mr. Bakewell seemed to be under strong emotion, but that very emotion strengthened the impression which he had made, especially when he spoke of the sacredness of human life, spoke of the terrible responsibility of a jury in condemning a prisoner to death. Nevertheless, he seemed to make it impossible for them to do anything else. When he sat down it seemed as though the scaffold were already erected, and the ghastly rope swinging from it.

Of course, the court was again crowded almost to suffocation. Mr. Bakewell had spoken for more than two hours, and during the whole time the interest had been intense, the excitement almost overwhelming. Whenever he paused it seemed as though they could hear the wings of the Angel of Death fluttering over them. Women sobbed aloud, strong men breathed forth quivering sighs. Even the barristers who sat watching the case, and who as a rule regarded murder cases with an air of nonchalance, could not hide their emotion. Everything seemed to be prejudged. No evidence had been adduced strong enough to save the prisoner, and each juryman, who sat with eyes fixed upon the eloquent counsel, looked as though there were only one thing to do, and that was to pronounce the word "Guilty."

Paul had sat during the whole time of the delivery of this speech, listening to every word with breathless eagerness. Never until that day had he realised how near death was to him. Throughout the whole trial he had never really believed that the jury could find him guilty. Now, however, it seemed as though they could do nothing else. Never had he felt his loneliness as he felt it then. The judge did not seem to be a man, but merely a legal machine, uninfluenced by great emotions, and considering his case only as a case. No one had been to see him since the trial had recommenced under Judge Branscombe, save the warders and the chaplain. In one way he was glad it was so, but in another he longed for society, longed for comfort. Eagerly on each morning of the trial had he looked around the court, dreading yet hoping to see the face of Mary Bolitho, whom he still loved as a man should love the woman he hopes to marry, even although he knew her to be his sister. Each morning, too, he had longed to see the face of his mother, although he hoped she would not be there. And while he still declared that nothing could soften his heart against Judge Bolitho, he felt as though the sight of his face would have helped him.

What were they doing? he wondered, the man whom he had lately learnt was his father, and his mother, and his half-sister—no, he could not call her sister even now, and he wondered why it was. When Mr. Bakewell had finished his speech he heaved a sigh of relief. At least the worst had been told. All that could be done to hang him had been done—at least, as far as evidence was concerned. And then there came back to him the old determination to fight to the bitter end. At least he had his chance to reply, and he nerved himself for the work he had to do. He had no idea of time. He had never thought of it. He knew it was at the beginning of the afternoon session when Mr. Bakewell rose to address the jury, but he had no thought of the time which had elapsed. He had been simply listening, listening, as if it were a matter of life and death—as in reality it was—to the address which had been made. He was expecting the judge to call upon him to make his speech for his own defence, and was arranging his thoughts in order to do so, when the judge turned towards him and asked him if his defence would take any considerable time.

"Yes," replied Paul, "it will."

"Then we will adjourn the court until to-morrow."

"Perhaps," added the judge, with a wan smile, "you will be glad of this. It will allow you some little time to make your preparations."

"Thank you, my lord," he replied.

And then he was led away to his cell.

When Paul entered the dock on the following morning he carried with him a sheaf of papers, the result of the previous night's work. When he returned to his cell he asked for writing materials, and then for several hours worked steadily. A strange calm possessed him while he was doing this, not without a certain sense of enjoyment, grim as the circumstances were. He was fighting for his own life, and there was a kind of intellectual pleasure in framing his arguments and in meeting the statements which Mr. Bakewell had so forcibly expressed in his final speech. He had always loved a battle of wits, and, terrible as the circumstances were, the pleasure which an intellectual struggle gave him was not absent even on this occasion.

When he had concluded writing he was utterly exhausted, but here his splendid physique came to his aid, and he slept several hours peacefully. At least he had one satisfaction. Whatever might be the issue of the terrible day which lay before him, terrible whatever might happen, he was an innocent man. He had struck no murderous blow, and he could go down to the grave with a clear conscience, knowing that he had tried to do what was right under the circumstances. Sometimes a shadow of doubt came into his mind as to whether his mother were really guilty of the terrible deed of which he was accused, but as he reviewed the circumstances, and remembered what she had said to him, it seemed as though a cold hand had gripped his heart, and it convinced him that it was she in spite of himself. Considering all the events, he could think of no one else who was likely to commit the deed; and so, while he determined to fight to the very last, he could at least do his utmost to keep any shadow of suspicion from falling on her.

Great as the excitement had been on the previous day's trial, it seemed, if possible, greater now, or rather it was an excitement of a different nature. Hitherto a sense of strangeness and wonder had predominated; a morbid curiosity and a desire for sensationalism had possessed the minds and hearts of those who had witnessed the trial. But to-day another element was added—an element of terror. On the previous days there had been a suggestion of a stage trial. Many, although they had breathlessly followed the evidence given, did not seem to realise that it might end in death. But that was all over now. The inwardness of everything, the ghastly issues of the scene, became tremendously real. All felt that now Paul Stepaside was indeed fighting for his life. The shadow of the scaffold rested upon him. A thousand unseen enemies seemed to be there trying to drag him to his doom. And he, unaided and alone, had to meet not only the terrible charge which was laid against him, but a kind of fiendish cleverness with which that charge had been urged. Men held their breath as he entered the dock; reporters forgot their duty as they watched his face; the jurymen, bearing in mind the terrible speech which Mr. Bakewell had delivered on the previous evening, and believing that nothing could remove the impression of that speech, looked on him with gloomy interest. Even the judge, legal machine as he appeared to be, showed more than ordinary interest and seemed to be wondering what he had to say for himself.

To all appearance, indeed, Paul was the most self-possessed man in the court. Pale he was, it is true, but upright, clear-sighted, determined. Unversed as he was in the intricacies of the law and possessing none of the experience which characterised the counsel for the prosecution, Mr. Bakewell felt that here indeed was a foeman worthy of his steel, and that had he been trained for the bar he would not have long remained an obscure member of that learned profession.

The formalities of the day were quickly gone through, and Paul rose to address the jury.

I cannot here give in detail the speech which he delivered, cannot describe the intensity with which he spoke, although I watched the trial from day to day. I can only convey a vague impression, not only of the speech which he delivered, but of the effect of his words. Even now I can see him standing in the dock, quietly arranging his papers with firm, steady hands, and then pushing them away as if they could be of no use to him. I can see the steady light in his eyes; the pale, clear-cut face; strong, determined features, upright form. I can feel, too, the tremendous emotion which seemed to overwhelm all present. But these things cannot be conveyed in cold print; they can only be hinted at.

He commenced by saying that he stood there accused of the most serious of charges. It had been urged that he was guilty of murder, and there could be no doubt that a murder had been committed. It was not a question of pleading for partial forgiveness. No question of mercy could be considered. Either he was guilty of murder or he was not, for undoubtedly the deceased man had been murdered. If he had been guilty of that murder, then the jury would do right to pronounce that verdict; if not, then they took upon themselves the responsibility of condemning an innocent man to death.

"The counsel for the prosecution," urged Paul, "has mentioned something about giving me the benefit of a doubt. There is no matter of benefit in it, and I decline to accept the term. It is only a matter of justice. It is only justice I desire. My lord and gentlemen of the jury, I have refused to enter the witness-box, not because I desired to keep back anything in relation to the murder, for in truth I know absolutely nothing, but because I might be, probably should be, asked questions on matters on which I desire to remain silent. I appeal to your understanding in relation to this. There are secret matters—ay, and sacred matters—in everyone's life which one does not wish to be discussed by the world at large, and it is for this reason, and this reason only, that I have declined to go into the witness-box. If it were simply a matter of dealing with my connection with the death of the deceased man, I would gladly answer any question that may be asked, because, as I repeat, I know nothing.

"The learned counsel has also referred to my decision to be my own defender, and has admitted that I may possibly suffer some disadvantage because of it. I did so for more than one reason. The first I have just suggested. No counsel could be of any value to me unless I gave him my absolute and complete trust. Again I say, there are certain matters utterly and wholly removed from the crime of which I am accused which I do not wish to make known. Possibly this may tell against me; but, gentlemen, when you think of the happenings of the last few days, when you remember, my lord, the wonderful and unprecedented confession which was made from the chair you now occupy, a confession which vitally affects me, you can understand that there are other things in my life—perfectly innocent, yes, and in a vital sense very sacred—which I do not wish to confide to any man. More on that question I will not say. The other reason I have for defending myself is that while an abler man than myself might be obtained, a more eloquent man, a far more learned man, I could secure no one who is so certain of my own innocence as I am myself, and as a consequence no one could plead with the same earnestness, albeit haltingly, yet no one can plead with the same conviction that I can. For, my lord and gentlemen, at the very outset of what I wish to say I must again urge that I know absolutely nothing of this man's murder. I struck no blow, and am as far removed from his death as the little children who were born in this city last night!

"Now, my lord and gentlemen, the whole weight of the accusation brought against me depends entirely upon circumstantial evidence, and you, my lord, who are so learned in the law, know full well the value that can be attached to such evidence. You know that again and again it has proved to be false. You know one particular case especially, when a man, who was condemned to die on circumstantial evidence, was three times brought to the scaffold, and three times the rope broke, and then, because of what may be called the superstitious feelings of the community at large, that sentence was reduced to penal servitude for life. I say you know, my lord, that although that circumstantial evidence seemed complete, when a renowned thief and murderer was brought to his trial and condemned to die, he confessed to this very murder. Moreover, you can see that when a man's life or death depends upon circumstantial evidence, that evidence must be complete. No link in the chain must be missing. If it is missing, then it would be a crime, and worse than a crime, to take away the life of a man because of it. And I shall show you, my lord and gentlemen, that not only is the chain of evidence incomplete in this case, but that many links are wanting in that chain, and therefore it has no strength whatever."

Paul paused here, and for a moment seemed to have forgotten his line of defence. He turned towards his notes, which he had placed beside him, as if with the intention of refreshing his memory, and then, like one angered at his seeming unreadiness, he appeared to make a mighty effort to gather together his scattered thoughts and to concentrate them. He gazed around the crowded court, watched the pale, set faces, not only of the jury, but of the spectators, noted the strained attention of the barristers and the steady scrutiny of the judge. He seemed for the moment like a man put upon his mettle and determined to play his part manfully.

"I would like," he said, "first of all to refer to the question of motive. The learned counsel has urged that I committed this murder because of personal hatred. The evidence which he sought to deduce, and upon which he dwelt almost to the point of tediousness, was that there was a long-standing feud between the murdered man and myself. He related incident after incident which went to show that, to say the least of it, no love was lost between us. I have no word to say against that evidence, no word to say against his methods of urging it against me. It was his duty as counsel for the prosecution. But I must ask you to examine this more closely. It is true that the murdered man had been my enemy for years. But should I be likely, because of his enmity, to murder him? Or, even if I belonged to the class of criminals which he would make me out to belong to, should I have chosen such an hour to commit that murder? Should I not have committed it, not in my hour of triumph, but in my hour of defeat?

"It has come out in the evidence that at the first election at Brunford the deceased man did his utmost to ruin me. He not only tried to tarnish the name of my mother as well as my own, but he did his best to ruin me financially. This has been proved, proved beyond a doubt; and as a result of what he did I lost that election. I say, if I had intended to murder him, would not that have been the time when I should have done it? Or again, would it not have been likely that I should have done it while in the heat of passion? As far as I can remember, the quarrel, which took place between us on the evening prior to the murder, has been correctly described. When I left him he struck me down. Gentlemen, I am not a weak man, but a strong man. If it was my desire to do him bodily harm, should I not be likely to do it then? We were there alone. As far as I knew, no eye was watching us, and naturally my passions would be roused by the cowardly blow he struck me; but I did nothing. I, so it was said, uttered a threat that I would be equal with him for this blow which he had struck, and then went away. Then, the learned counsel has urged, after I had walked nearly two miles back to my own home, after I had dressed for dinner, I waited until midnight, and then, with cool calculation, went out to kill this man. Can anyone in his senses believe such a thing? Besides, think of another thing. I was in a position to laugh at Wilson's enmity. I had won an eminent position in the town of my adoption. I had risen from obscurity to be a member of Parliament for that town. I had made a speech in the House of Commons which had attracted notice throughout the whole country. I was the subject of leading articles in newspapers. What was Wilson's enmity to me? I could have afforded to have left Brunford altogether. I could have lived in London, where I need never have seen him. Was I likely, then—not in a moment of mad passion, mark you—not in resentment for a coward's blow which had been struck immediately before, but after seven hours—was I likely to go out into the dead of the night to kill him? Forgive me for urging this matter, but the question of motive must come in, and to say that this deed was the outcome of a long personal feud is, under the circumstances, preposterous. Is this link in the chain strong enough to hold? Nay, is it a link at all? And does not the chain break in consequence?"

It was at this point that Paul held both judge and jury strongly. I know I altogether fail to convey the impression he made. In cold print, while his words may seem reasonable, and even forcible, they only give a hint at their power when they were uttered as he uttered them.

The next point with which he dealt was with that of the knife. This knife, known to be Paul's, was found driven through Edward Wilson's heart, driven from behind. And it had been used with great skill by the counsel for the prosecution. He had considered it from every standpoint, and it had seemed, at the time, that no one but Paul could have used it.

"This," said Paul, "is the one definite thing urged against me. Everything else is pure surmise, but the knife was known to be mine. The knife was in my office, an office which is always locked when I have occasion to leave it. Therefore, no one but myself could have used it. Such is the counsel's argument. Again I ask you to consider this carefully. Remember that no secret was ever made about my possessing this knife. It had been sent to me by a customer from abroad. It had been used as a paper-knife. It had been frequently seen by those who visited me lying on my office desk. It was not some secret thing, something about which the world knew nothing. It was known to be mine by scores of people—please bear that in mind. Then there is another thing-. It has come out in the evidence that I was not in the habit of carrying it. It is a sharp, murderous-looking blade, and it has been examined, my lord, not only by you, but by every member of the jury. I admit that this knife is mine. I admit all that my partner, Mr. George Preston, has said about it. But I want you to consider the tremendous gap between the fact of the knife known to belong to me, and the accusation that with this knife I murdered Mr. Edward Wilson. Now, will you please think carefully. It has been urged that I did this deed in cold blood. It was between three and four o'clock in the afternoon when I had a quarrel with Wilson and he struck me down. My servants have given testimony to the fact that I came home, talked with my mother, went into my study, stayed there for several hours. Then it is urged that I went out, carrying this knife with me; and, mark you, they did not see the knife in the house, no one saw me take it away from the office; but it is urged that I went out, after several hours' cool and calculated thought, at midnight; that I caught the murdered man unawares, drove the knife into his body, and then ran away and left it there. Now, think of this, gentlemen, and remember that my life or death depends upon the reasonableness of it, depends upon this link in the chain of circumstantial evidence. It has been urged again and again that whatever I am, I am not a fool, that I am capable of careful and connected thought, that I commenced my career in Brunford in a very small way, and that in a few years I have made it to be what it is, large and prosperous. It has been urged that I am far-seeing, careful, calculating, and that as a rule I am not a man who acts upon sudden impulses. Now, my lord and jury, I ask you, would such a man as I be likely to do this? I could have understood the accusation if in the heat of the passion which I naturally felt when the deceased man struck me a cowardly blow, I had, if I carried such a knife with me, which I never did, seized it and struck the murderous blow, and then in a state of panic rushed away for fear of the consequences. But after several hours had elapsed, during which time I should have time to think about it, and to realise the results of such a deed, that I should then, in a cool and calculated fashion, seek out a victim, strike the blow, and then leave the weapon in the body which must be inevitably traced to me, is a deed of such madness that I can only wonder that a gentleman with the erudition of the counsel should have thought it worth while to mention it!"

From this point Paul went on to deal with another matter, of which the counsel for the prosecution seemed to have taken no notice, but which, put as he put it, strengthened his case very considerably.

"I want you to consider the circumstances connected with the accusation again," he said presently. "It is known that I had only returned from London the day before. It has come out in the evidence that I wrote a letter to Wilson, asking him to meet me, and that Wilson replied refusing to do so. It has also been proved that I waylaid him not far from his own house, and that we had a quarrel. Concerning the nature of that quarrel I am not going to speak, but a quarrel there was, this I admit. Now, please bear in mind that I had only returned from London the previous day; that I knew nothing of Wilson's possible whereabouts; that I could have known nothing of his plans. It was impossible for me to tell what he was going to do, or where he was going to be. It has also come out in the evidence that I asked certain questions about him on the afternoon of the day before the murder. I went from one place to another where he had been, in order to find him—remember this was not done in secret, but openly—therefore I must have been utterly ignorant of his movements, or of his plans, except what I openly gathered that afternoon. Then we had a quarrel. He struck me down, and I, when I recovered from the blow, rose, said a few words to him, and walked away. I went back to my own house, and, on the testimony of the servants, was there the whole evening. I did not go out at all. It is also admitted that no messenger of any sort came to me that night, that no letters were received. Please bear these things clearly in mind. Then I went out at midnight, on a dark night, with the intent to murder 'him. Now think of the position. Would he not in all probability be in bed, as far as I knew? Brunford is not a town of late hours. Ordinarily, except when there is a social gathering, or something of the sort, people retire to rest between ten and eleven o'clock. But it is urged I went out with the intention of murdering him, carrying the knife with me, and yet having no means of even suspecting that he would be out; and that then I met him by chance, and having the knife ready, killed him, and left the knife in his body. My lord, and gentlemen, does not the chain of evidence entirely break? Is there any connecting link here at all? Can you condemn a man upon such evidence? Think of the tremendously long arm of coincidence which has to be imagined before you can connect me with it!

"With regard to the evidence which the counsel for the prosecution has urged with so much effect: I admit it is true. I was worried and perplexed that night. I did not utter the words which he has mentioned, but I do remember walking along a lane at no great distance from Howden Clough. I was troubled about a personal matter, and, if I may so put it, a secret matter, a matter which I cannot discuss, but which does not even by a gossamer thread connect me with the crime of which I am accused. And if you condemn me on such an evidence, then no man's life is safe. No man can be worried and perplexed without, under similar circumstances, being accused of a crime of which he would never dream!"

Again Paul made the jury feel as he felt, see as he saw. The evident sincerity of his tones, the force of his language, language which I have utterly failed to reproduce, carried conviction with every word. For the time being, at least, they felt that such an accusation bordered on the edge of the absurd, and to say the least of it, there was a tremendous gulf which had to be filled up, and that to fill it up by the belief in the long arm of coincidence, and to commit a man to the scaffold because of it, would be criminal indeed.

"There's only one point more that I wish to urge," said Paul. "It is this. It is plain to me that the deceased man was murdered. It is plain to us all, therefore, that someone must have been guilty of the deed. Who would be likely to be guilty? The statements which found credence here in the early part of the trial, that the deceased man had no enemy beside myself has been shattered and destroyed. It has been shown that one woman, at least, had reason to hate him with a deadly hatred, and that case alone throws a tremendous light upon the character of the deceased man. Far be it from me to throw suspicion upon any innocent person—I have suffered too much myself to think of doing such a thing—but even the deceased man's own father has made terrible admissions. Do these admissions mean nothing? Are they to count for nothing? That woman whose name has been mentioned, and who, from the evidence given, could have no connection with this crime, had a thousand times more reason to hate him than I. May there not be others? Nay, there must be others——"

At this point Paul, knowing that he was drawing near to the end of what he had to say, felt that he was indeed fighting for his life, and I will not endeavour to describe his speech further. Possessing a mind of more than ordinary clearness, having the gift of language to a marked degree, and also having the strongest motive to make the most of the facts which stood out clearly before him, he spoke almost like a man inspired. With trembling voice, he was outwardly calm in appearance. He again reviewed the evidence, showed its weakness, tore the sophistries of Mr. Bakewell to pieces, and moved the hearts of all present by his passionate appeal. More than once the spectators broke in applause, while the barristers nudged each other with nods of approval, as he made some special point in his defence. And presently, when he sat down, everyone felt that Paul had saved his own life, that he had fought a great battle and won it, that he not only did not commit the deed of which he was accused, but that he was utterly incapable of it, and that he would leave the court amid shouts of triumph. Even to this day his speech is spoken of as one of the most triumphant efforts ever made in the Manchester Assize Courts.

But this was only for a time. It is true he had seemingly answered Mr. Bakewell in every point. It is true, too, that it seemed a crime beyond all description to pronounce the Verdict of guilty upon him, but naturally it was an ex-parte Statement, it was the speech of a clever man fighting for his life, who naturally did the best with the material at his disposal. He had been talking for nearly two hours, and during that time all were under the spell not only of his words but of his personality.

When he had finished, the judge waited for perhaps a minute, and seemed to be looking at his notes, and presently all eyes were transferred from the prisoner's dock to the judge's chair. What had this keen legal machine to say? Throughout Paul's speech he had listened with close attention, and had evidently admired the points he had made. But as we have said, Judge Branscombe was a lawyer, a lawyer to the finger tips, and he was one who thought much of outward facts, and little of what might be probable or not probable. Long associated with the law as he was, he had known many cases where criminals had done the most unlikely things, and where facts had scattered theories to the winds. He had won eminence at the Bar because of this attitude of mind. He cared nothing about probabilities. He cared little about theories, but dealt with facts.

He began his summing-up by speaking of the unusual way in which the trial had been conducted. The prisoner had elected to be his own advocate, and that, as a consequence, he, the judge, had not been so particular about formalities as he would have been under different circumstances. He had allowed matters to be introduced in the cross-examination which were not strictly evidence. He also referred in high terms to the prisoner's defence. He spoke of him as a man of more than ordinary intellectual ability, who, with the gift of an orator, had played upon the various emotions of the jury as a clever musician plays with an instrument of which he is a master. And then, little by little, he went back to what he called "the cold hard facts of the case." From the pure lawyer's standpoint, his summing-up was perhaps just, but from the standpoint of the prisoner it was deadly. With a cleverness of which Paul did not believe anyone capable, he wore away the effect of what he had said, until, as it seemed to him, his speech seemed to be like that of another counsel for the prosecution. And yet, as I said, no one could accuse him of being unfair. He admitted the responsibility of the jury, spoke of the tremendous Issues at stake, and seemed desirous of guiding them into right paths. For nearly an hour he spoke, and then, amidst an excitement which was painful in the extreme, the jury went away to consider their verdict.

Minute after minute passed away, while everyone waited in painful suspense for the jurymen to return. The old feeling of uncertainty had come back to the spectators, the barristers, who had been so eagerly listening to the case, discussed in whispers what the probable result would be, and more than one woman had to be carried out of the court in a state of collapse. Men sat with hard, set faces, scarcely daring to move. How long they were away I do not know, but it seemed to all present like an eternity.

Presently the foreman of the jury appeared, and the judge returned to his chair.

"Gentlemen, are you agreed as to the verdict?"

"No, we are not agreed."

It was as though a mighty sob arose from the throats of all present. The judge, who wore an uneasy look as he reentered the court, seemed perturbed. A look of eager expectation was on the faces of the barristers. As for Paul, he became instinct with new life. His case was not hopeless—they were not agreed. The fiendishly clever speech of Mr. Bakewell and the deadly summing-up of the judge had not secured a verdict of guilty. He felt almost like a conqueror. Hope was in his heart. He would live even yet. The judge looked at his watch, as if in doubt what to do, but it was evident that he quickly made up his mind.

CHAPTER XXVII

THE VERDICT

"If you will tell me the points on which you are disagreed," said the judge at length, "I may be able to throw some light upon them, and also, perhaps, advise you."

"The points are these," said the foreman of the jury. "First of all, some among us are far from being convinced that the prisoner, if he were the murderer, would be likely to leave the knife in the murdered man's body. If he had struck the blow in a passion, and had then, overcome by panic, run away for fear of the consequences of what he had done, we could have understood it. But as we are dealing with circumstantial evidence, it seems utterly unlikely that a man who had premeditated a murder should have run away leaving a weapon which could be easily traced to him. That, at least, is the feeling of some members of the jury, and is one of the points which causes us to be divided.

"The second is this: there are some among us who feel very strongly the point of the prisoner's remarks concerning the probability of his knowing where the deceased was at the time of the murder. As he has stated, he would probably have been in bed at the time when he was actually killed. If the murder was premeditated, there are some who feel the utter unlikelihood of the prisoner going out alone at midnight on the chance of finding his victim.

"These are the points, my lord, on which we are not agreed, and unless further light is thrown upon them, there is no likelihood of agreement."

The juryman spoke in a hesitating fashion. He was evidently labouring under a very strong emotion, and was unable to control his voice or to express his thoughts with anything like clearness. Still, what we have just stated conveys a rough idea of the difficulties which faced them.

Again an intense silence pervaded the court as the foreman of the jury sat down. The suspense seemed almost too horrible to be borne. There was not a man in the court who was not pale to the lips, and whose nerves were not quivering with painful excitement. Again the reporters almost forgot their duty. In their eagerness to know what would be said they forgot to write. Suppressed sobbing was heard almost everywhere. Even the judge looked exceedingly grave, and for the moment seemed unable to decide what to say.

As for Paul, it seemed to him as though his fate hung on a delicately poised balance. The weight of a hair in either scale might decide either his life or his death. It was one of those tragic moments which seldom occur in any man's life, and it was only by a tremendous effort that he remained outwardly calm. But pride came to his aid even now. He had not shown weakness yet, and he would not show it now. He would not break down before this gaping, excited crowd, but retain quiet dignity even to the last. In spite of the intense excitement, too, he was becoming almost callous. Nature has its own way of alleviating pain, and the way she chose now to help Paul to continue to bear the dreadful strain was to numb his feelings, and to make him almost indifferent concerning what should take place. For the past few hours every nerve had been at full tension, and so greatly had he been wrought upon that he could not have remained in such a condition much longer. And so kindly Nature had lessened the pangs he was suffering, and made him able to bear to the end by her own anaesthetics.

"I quite understand your position, gentlemen," said the judge, "and I will do my best to help you. We will take the points in the order in which you mention them. First, there is the question of the knife, and in order to fully understand the sequence of this, we will again consider it from the very beginning. We must remember that the prisoner was very careful about locking his office. No one was allowed to enter it when he was absent. He kept the key in his own pocket. We have to remember, too, that his own partner declared that he knew of no one who entered the prisoner's office that day, and even if anyone entered the office, there was no one who, as far as he knew, would dare to take that knife from the prisoner's desk. The fact remains, however—and it is facts we must consider, gentlemen, and give them their due significance—the fact remains that the murdered man was found with this knife in his heart. Now, gentlemen, it is for you to decide how that knife could have left the prisoner's office. Was there someone who could have entered the office, and, with set purpose, take it away without the prisoner's knowledge, and use it in the way mentioned? Or, did the prisoner take it away himself and use it as has been described by the counsel for the prosecution? I say you must decide on this question because it is most vital. You have heard all the evidence in relation to this matter, and it is for you to decide now first whether any outsider obtained entrance into the prisoner's office and took away that knife and used it for the purpose of murder, or whether the prisoner himself took it away in the way described? That is the first point to be considered in relation to the knife. Now with regard to the ostensible difficulty which appears to you. From one standpoint, it seems utterly unlikely that a man of the prisoner's evident intellectual acumen should have used this knife, known to be his, for the purpose of murdering an enemy, and then have left it in his body in such a way that it would be inevitably traced to him. I understand your difficulty, gentlemen, and I appreciate it, and it is a point that you must keep clearly before your mind. There is, however, another side which you must also keep just as clearly in view. It is this. If the prisoner had made up his mind to do this, would not a clever man, such as he undoubtedly is, probably come to the conclusion that it would seem so absurd that he should leave the knife in the body of his victim that he might do so as a mere matter of bluff? A clever man, a far-seeing man will sometimes do things which a duller man would not do, and it is for you to decide whether these things might not have been in the mind of the prisoner when he decided to act in this way.

"You have also to consider this. It is true it has been urged that the murderous deed was uninterrupted, but we cannot be sure of this. Might not the one who struck the blow have heard approaching footsteps at the time, and then in a state of panic have rushed away? These things you must carefully consider. But the real point at issue, the vital point which you have to consider is: could anyone else have become possessed of the knife in the first place? Did anyone else become possessed of that knife? If not, then the difficulty in your minds is easy to explain.

"That is the first point. Now for the second. What you urge, and most rightly urge, too—and I fully appreciate the evident thought and care which you have bestowed upon it—is the unlikelihood of the prisoner going out at midnight to commit murder, when he had no knowledge whatever that the murdered man would not be in his own home. You say that some of you feel that his going out under such circumstances, and depending on chance as to whether he should meet him, was altogether unnatural. I will admit that you have to consider this point carefully, remembering that a man's life or death depends upon the decision at which you arrive. But there is another thought which you must keep clearly before your minds. You have no knowledge that the prisoner was not aware of the murdered man's whereabouts. They had a quarrel the previous evening. How do we know that the murdered man did not tell the prisoner something of his plans, or where he intended to be? He has not submitted himself to cross-examination, and therefore we have not been able to hear from him. Consequently, we have no knowledge that the murdered man did not, during the excited conversation, say something of his intentions, or let fall some hint whereby a man with the quick perception of the prisoner, might find out what he intended to do. If this were the case—and while there is no proof that it is so, it is not at all improbable—it would remove your difficulty. If they met, it is probable that another quarrel ensued, and then in the heat of passion the prisoner might have struck the blow which resulted in his victim's death, and then rushed away and uttered the words which the man Ashley overhead. This is all I can say on these points, gentlemen, and you have to consider, in the light of the evidence to which you have listened, whether this might be the case. As has been repeatedly said, the whole case rests upon circumstantial evidence, and it is for you carefully to consider the matter again, and may Almighty God guide you in your momentous deliberations!"

Again it was evident that the judge tried to be fair, but again his elucidation of the points at issue was deadly, as far as the prisoner was concerned. Rightly or wrongly, more than one felt that the judge had made up his mind as to the guilt of Paul Stepaside, and speaking as he did, in cold, calculated words, yet with all the authority of his position behind him, many felt that each sentence strengthened the chain of evidence which would hang the prisoner.

Paul listened without moving a muscle or uttering a sound, nevertheless his eyes were fixed upon the judge with a kind of stony stare. It seemed to him that there was a kind of malignant cunning in the judge's words, that the man was conjuring up possibilities in support of the evidence which seemed to point to him.

Again the jury retired, and a solemn silence reigned. This time there was not even the sound of whispered consultations as to what the verdict might be. It was a kind of ghastly waiting for the jurymen to return. Slowly the clock ticked on, and it seemed to be numbering the seconds of Paul Stepaside's life. And yet there were many who simply could not believe that any jury could find him guilty. Standing there alone in the dock, tall, erect, calm, his features refined by the long weeks of suffering through which he had passed, thin and pale as a consequence of his confinement and anxiety, many felt that it was impossible he should be guilty of such a bloodthirsty deed. And yet in face of the judge's summing up, in face of the terrible speech which Mr. Bakewell had delivered, it seemed as if the gallows would surely claim their victim.

Minute after minute passed, until the waiting seemed unbearable. At length, however, the door of the room in which the jury sat opened, and one by one they returned. With strained eyes, all looked at their faces, trying to read there what their decision was. It seemed almost grotesque that these twelve, commonplace, unimaginative men, with no ability out of the common order, with little or no knowledge of the law, with minds unfitted to grasp the inwardness of the evidence which had been given, should have to pronounce the verdict of life or death upon the young man who stood in the dock. Under ordinary circumstances Paul's voice, Paul's opinion, would have weighed more than all theirs put together. Yet such was the case. They held in their hands the issues of life and death. What they had decided upon would be final.

"Gentlemen, are you agreed as to your verdict?" And as the listeners heard the question asked it seemed as though their heart-strings were strained, and as though they could not bear to hear the answer.

"Yes."

"Do you find the prisoner guilty, or not guilty?"

"Guilty!"

It seemed like a knell of doom in the court. The pent-up feelings of the crowded spectators burst forth in a mighty sob. More than one gasped, "No, no." The utmost confusion prevailed, and more than one had to be carried out of the court, overcome by emotion. The jurymen sat each in his place pale and evidently moved. The verdict had been according to the best of their abilities. Perhaps had the judge's summing up been different they would have given the alternative finding, but the feeling was that the judge, who was far wiser than they, believed in the prisoner's guilt, and they, carried away by his weight and authority, and by his cold, yet telling, words, pronounced the verdict of "Guilty."

Paul, when he heard the verdict, reeled for a moment, and felt as though his limbs were giving way under him; but only for a moment. His resolution and his pride, which had borne him through the rest of the trial, should bear him through this. He would not show any weakness. His face was blanched, and his lips were white, but his eyes still burned with a steady light, and in a few seconds he again stood erect and calm, and looked at the judge's face.

The judge communicated for a moment with the Clerk of Arraigns, who went through the usual formula, and then the clerk, addressing the prisoner in the dock, said to him:

"Paul Stepaside, you have been found guilty of the wilful murder of Edward Wilson. Have you anything to say why sentence of death should not be passed upon you in due form?"

Paul hesitated a moment as if undecided whether he should speak—everything seemed to be pure mockery now. The end of all things had come. He knew that when a jury pronounced a verdict of guilty of wilful murder, especially as there were no extenuating circumstances sufficient in any way to lessen the guilt, all hope was gone. And yet he felt as though he must say something. It seemed like allowing himself to be led as a lamb to a butcher if he uttered no word of protest.

"My lord and gentlemen of the jury," he said, "I feel impelled to say a few words, even although I realise their uselessness. I have no complaint to make concerning the motives which inspired the jury. I have no doubt that each one has tried to do his duty. Neither do I complain of the action of the counsel for the prosecution in doing his utmost to fasten the guilt upon me. I suppose it was his duty so to do, and he has done it. Neither, I suppose, ought I to complain of your lordship's summing up, although it struck me as more like another speech by the counsel for prosecution than the judicial analysis of evidence by an impartial judge. But then my position has been of such a nature that perhaps my own judgment is warped. Be that as it may, however, and knowing that, whatever I may say, I cannot alter anything that has been done, I wish to repeat that I am utterly and wholly guiltless concerning this murder. My hand never struck the blow that killed Edward Wilson, and I have no knowledge whatever concerning the murder. In the course of events, I suppose I shall be hanged, but, my lord and gentlemen, you will hang an innocent man, and by your finding to-day, you will send a man into eternity who is not only altogether innocent of the murder, but altogether unconnected with it! I shall go into the great silence, into the land of forgetfulness, but of this I am sure, you, my lord, and you, gentlemen of the jury, must for ever be haunted by the thought that you have sent an innocent man to an unmerited doom."

The tones of his voice gathered in strength and condemnatory intonation as he proceeded, and when he had finished it seemed to many as though he were the judge and those to whom he spoke were criminals. More than one of the jury, who had been unconvinced, but who had given way to the opinions of others, felt as though his words were true. They shuddered as he spoke, and it seemed to them that they were guilty, even as he said they were.

But the word had gone forth and could not be recalled. When once a jury, after careful deliberation, has uttered the verdict of "Guilty," that verdict is final. Even although the judge were convinced of Paul's innocence, he could only pronounce sentence of death. In that respect he was no more responsible than the hangman who had to fasten the rope around his neck. Each would play his part in the grim tragedy, and each would have to do so, because he had accepted the responsibilities of his office.

It was evident that the judge was greatly wrought upon. His hands trembled, his face was haggard, and in his eyes was an expression that looked like fear. He turned for a moment and saw that the chaplain was standing behind him, a pale, cadaverous-looking man indeed, a veritable death's-head.

The judge put on the black cap.

"Paul Stepaside," he said, "you have this day been found guilty of wilful murder. The jury have, upon the evidence given, passed that verdict upon you," he stopped. He had seemed on the point of saying something else, but was unable to do so. Perhaps, as is often the case, he was going to preach him a homily upon a wasted life, or upon a career cut off in the middle, destroyed by an act of brutal passion, but he did not do so. Perhaps there was something in Paul's face which forbade him. Perhaps he almost feared the scornful smile which was on Paul's lips, and the steady look in his eyes.

A painful silence followed, a silence of nearly a minute, and then the judge pronounced his sentence.

"You will be taken from this place to the place from whence you came, and from there to the place of execution, and there you will be hanged by the neck until you are dead, and your body will be buried in the precincts of the prison where you will have been confined after your conviction, and may the Lord have mercy on your soul."

He spoke the words in slow, measured tones, and with deathly impressiveness. Although he was a little man, his voice was deep, almost sonorous, and thus when the chaplain followed him with a thin, piping voice, "Amen!" there was something so incongruous in the contrast that many who had been wrought up to a high state of excitement felt like giving way to hysterical laughter. Nevertheless, the utmost silence prevailed, until Paul spoke again.

"Thank you, my lord," he said. "I am an innocent man, and when my time comes, I will meet death as an innocent man should!"

For a moment he looked around the court, scanned the faces of those present with an expression almost like curiosity. It seemed as if he realised he was looking at them for the last time. It was a look of farewell. He was no longer a prisoner, he was a condemned man. He nodded to some of the people whom he had known in Brunford, and then, with a proud smile, he left the box, under the vigilance of two policemen, who led him to the condemned cell.

CHAPTER XXVIII

PAUL'S MOTHER AND MARY

When Mary Bolitho left her father on the night following the first day of the trial, she was naturally much excited. She could not understand the great change which had come over him. Never before had she known him to be so much moved by any case with which he had to do. She wondered why it was, and in the solitude of her room began to think of reasons. Had he learnt something about Paul of which she was ignorant? Had he discovered the real murderer? She had sat throughout the day's trial, and no word had fallen, no argument of whatever sort had been urged, that in the slightest degree shook her faith in the man she loved.

She quickly dismissed this from her mind, however. Whatever her father's conduct might mean, she saw no sign that he believed in Paul's innocence. Still, her conversation with him caused all sorts of fancies to flash through her brain, and, sitting down before her fire, she, for the thousandth time, tried to think of means whereby she could save him.

"I must save him; I must!" she said to herself. "Paul knows of something which he refuses to tell me. He is shielding someone."

Naturally she knew nothing of what her father had learnt that night, had no suspicion of the revelations which, when they became known to her, would destroy the thousand fancies which she had cherished and revolutionise her life. The one dominant thought in her mind was that the man whom, in spite of herself, she had learnt to love, was charged with murder, and that unless something was done to nullify the evidence which had been brought to court that day he would have to pay the penalty with his life. Paul, for some reason unknown to her, would not use the means she was sure he had in his power in order to save his life. Of course it was pure surmise on her part, but she was perfectly certain of it; and what he would not do she must do.

Throughout the evening she had been reading the Brunford papers, in which the whole story had been described. Paul's first appearance before the magistrates; the coroner's inquest; and, again, the second appearance before the local justices; and his final committal. No detail of these reports had escaped her notice, and now, after her talk with her father, she again set herself to consider the whole question, determined, at whatever hazards, to save her lover.

Finally her mind fastened upon two or three thoughts, and these thoughts became the centre around which everything revolved. To begin with, Ned Wilson was murdered. Next, Paul Stepaside, who was being tried for that murder, was guiltless of it; that also was a settled conviction in her mind. Who, then, was guilty? Someone must have done the deed, but who? In whatever light murder could be considered, it was something ghastly beyond words. The person who had driven Paul's knife into the murdered man's heart must have had a terrible motive. What could that motive have been? Who would be likely to do it? Who had a motive sufficiently strong to commit such a crime? She thought of one person after another, realising all the time that her imaginings were vain. Yet she knew that it was in this direction that the truth, if it were to be discovered, must be found.

She went over the whole story of the knife, and remembered the deadly words which the counsel for the prosecution had uttered about it. The knife was known to belong to Paul. It was lying in his office, an office which he always locked when he left it. She remembered that Paul's partner had sworn that he knew of no one who would be likely to, or, indeed, could, enter the office and take it away without Paul's knowledge and consent. And yet someone must have done so, for she was still certain that Paul had never done the deed.

Presently she began to think of the question from another standpoint. She had told Paul that he was trying to shield someone. She did not attach much importance to it at the time, but now its consequence became very real. If her surmise were true, then Paul would rather suffer death himself than tell what he knew. She had pleaded with him, only as a woman moved by a great love could plead. With her arms round his neck and her eyes fastened on his she had besought him to tell the truth, and he had been silent. Only the strongest of all reasons could have kept him silent.

Her heart gave a great leap. With that swift intuition of which only a woman is capable her mind leapt to its conclusion. There was only one person in the world besides herself whom Paul loved dearly, and that was his mother.

Like lightning she began to connect the evidence, and it seemed to her that at last she had found the key to unlock the mystery. It was for his mother's sake that Paul was bearing the shame and was suffering the torments of a man accused of murder. She felt sure she had found the truth, and she was at last in a position to save his life. Everything fitted in with the thought which had so suddenly flashed into her mind. Who would have free access to Paul's office? His mother. Why should he refuse to engage a counsel to defend him? Because he feared to incriminate his mother. Again she read the evidence at the coroner's inquest, and noted each point. And she saw, or thought she saw, evidence in every word he had uttered of his endeavour to keep all thoughts from being directed to her.

Presently, however, difficulties began to appear before her mind. What motive could she have had to do this deed? Again her mind worked swiftly. She was, according to all she had heard of her, a passionate woman. She loved Paul with all the strength of her being. For him she had toiled. For him she had suffered. And it was the gossip of the town that Paul's mother loved her son with a wild and almost unreasoning love. She knew of Ned Wilson's enmity towards Paul, knew how he had persecuted him through the years. Possibly, probably, she knew of her son's love for herself, Mary Bolitho; knew, too, that gossip had connected her own name with that of Ned Wilson. Of course, a great deal of it was surmise, but everything pointed to the one fact. Besides, Paul, on his return home after his quarrel with Wilson, would probably tell her about it. He would not be able to hide his wounded forehead. The blood would be trickling down his face, and she would ask him questions about it. Would not a vindictive, passionate woman such as she was said to be, seek to avenge her son? And, of course, Paul would discover everything. The evidence of the servants had proved that Paul had left the house during the night. Why? Yes, that was it. Of course, he would do everything to keep even a shadow of suspicion from resting upon her. It would be like him to do so. Paul's mother had come back, and he had discovered what she had done. That would explain the mystery of the knife. Paul, even though he might have so far yielded to the spirit of revenge as to kill his enemy, would never leave a knife in his victim's body known to be his, and which could be identified and traced to him. But a woman was different, especially such a woman as Paul's mother. Of course, there were motives which she could not understand, thoughts in her mind which were yet hidden from her; but this was the key, this would unlock the door of the mystery, and this would save her lover's life. No, no; much as Paul might love his mother, much as he owed to her, she could not allow him to suffer death in his mother's stead. It was too horrible.

She called to mind the scene she had witnessed that morning. She remembered being startled by the face of the woman who found her way into the court. She had seen the look of madness in her eyes as she looked first at Paul and then at her father. After which she uttered the scream of a maniac and then fell to the ground.

Another thought struck her. Was Paul's mother sane? Would not this account for the difficulties which, in spite of everything, she could not explain away? If she were mad, and carried away by the passion which had been aroused by Wilson's attack on her son, would she not, regardless of consequences, commit this deed of which Paul was accused?

Again and again she considered the circumstances, pondered over each fact, weighed every scrap of evidence which had been adduced; and the more she thought about it the more she was convinced that she had arrived at the truth. By and by, however, the terror of the whole tragic scene came home to her. What would Paul think of her if she were instrumental in bringing his mother to the gallows? Even his love could not bear that test. But she would do it. Rather than see Paul die a thousand should die; for while a woman's love is the most beautiful and the most holy thing on earth, it is also the most merciless and the most pitiless. And at that moment no pity for others entered the heart of Mary Bolitho. Her one thought was of Paul.

No thought of sleep was possible. Every faculty was awake, every nerve in tension. During the years in which she had been interested in her father's work she had, out of pure curiosity, and because of her love of intellectual problems, studied the cases with which he had been connected, and her knowledge of the intricacies of the law and of the value of evidence came to her aid now. All she had was laid at Paul's feet. It was for him she must think, for him she must work.

But she must do something. She must test her theories. Surmises, however true they might be, would not save the man she loved; and save him she would, at whatever cost.

Her mind was made up at length. She saw her course of action, and she believed, too, that she saw a way whereby the truth might be demonstrated.

"Paul, Paul, my love!" she cried. "Do not fear. I will save you, in spite of everything."

She threw herself beside her bed and prayed for wisdom, prayed for strength. She cared nothing for the sacrifices she might be called upon to make, or the sufferings which she might have to endure. She only asked God to help her to save the man she loved.

The following morning Mary Bolitho left the hotel and found her way to the assize courts. Early as it was, she found some of the officials present. One of them, who had seen her the day before and had been informed who she was, touched his hat respectfully.

"I've been wondering," said Mary, smiling at the man, "whether you could help me?"

"I'm sure I will if I can, miss," he replied.

"You were here at the courts all day yesterday?" she asked.

"Yes, miss, I was, and a sad business it was too, wasn't it? Ah, miss, it's not all fun being a judge, as I've no doubt you know very well. I was saying to my missis only last night as 'ow I wouldn't like to be in your father's place. T'other day, afore th' assizes were opened, and people saw his lordship coming into the city, they thought what a grand thing it were, but they don't realise what he's got to do."

The man was of a friendly, garrulous disposition, and seemed pleased at the opportunity of talking to his fair visitor.

"Are you interested in this case?" she asked.

"Ay, miss, who isn't? I heard Mr. Stepaside speak in the Free Trade Hall here once, and I cannot believe he is a murderer. It were a grand speech he gave. There were a Cabinet Minister who spoke before he did, and people thought he were doing grandly, but when young Stepaside got up he took the wind out of his sails completely. As the manner of saying is, he made the people stand on their heads. It's noan for the likes of me to pass opinions, but I can never believe as 'ow Mr. Stepaside is guilty."

"Did you notice the woman who came into the court yesterday morning?"

"What, the one as fainted? Ay, but that were Mr. Stepaside's mother. She fair made me shiver. Well, it was no wonder. Fancy a mother seeing her son in the dock. I heerd as 'ow she was going to be called to give evidence."

"Is she staying here in Manchester, do you know?"

"Ay, she is. I hear as 'ow she's been here a week, waiting for her son's trial to begin. I know where she's staying, too—25 Dixon Street, just off Strangeways. An old man and an old woman live there, and th' old man is very deaf. I hear she's practically got the house to hersen."

This was what Mary had come to find out, and she was glad that she had been able to obtain her information without ostensibly asking for it. A little later she found her way towards Dixon Street, and with a trembling hand knocked at the door of the house which had been mentioned. As she heard footsteps in the passage her heart almost failed her, for she realised the object which she had in mind, and she believed that she would soon be face to face with the murderer of Ned Wilson. Still, she was not to be shaken in her purpose, as she had determined the night before, no matter who might suffer, Paul must not suffer. A pale, near-sighted old woman opened the door to her.

"Is Mrs. Stepaside in?" asked Mary.

"Ay, she is."

"I would like to see her, if I may."

"Who might you be?"

"If you will take me to her I will tell her who I am."

The woman looked at her suspiciously.

"Has it got anything to do with the murder?" she said; and then added: "Nay, the likes of you can have nowt to do with that!"

"Will you please take me to her?" said Mary.

"I don't know. She's noan so well this morning. Last night I left her i' th' house alone. Me and my old man went over to Crumpsall to see our lass. She said as 'ow she didn't mind being left alone, and so we were away several hours. But I was sorry afterwards that we went, for she was in a fair way when we come back. She looked just like a corpse. You see, she's brooding over her son. Ay, but it's a terrible business!"

"Will you please tell her a young lady wishes to see her?" urged Mary.

"She's in the little room behind, having her breakfast," said the woman. "Ay, I s'pose I may as well."

She led the way and Mary followed her, and a minute later entered the room where Paul's mother was.

"Here's a young woman come to see you."

Paul's mother rose as the woman spoke, and looked at Mary intently.

"I've something to say to you," said Mary, "something very important."

"What is it about?"

"I'll tell you when we are alone," was Mary's reply. And then, at a nod from Paul's mother, the owner of the cottage left them together.

For a few seconds there was a silence between them, as each looked steadily at each other. In Mary's eyes were wonder and a sense of horror. She was speaking to Paul's mother, the mother of the man to whom she had given her heart. She was speaking, too, to the woman whom she believed guilty of the crime for which Paul would be again tried that day. The other met her gaze steadily, and looked at her searchingly. She seemed to be trying to read her thoughts, trying to understand her heart, for she knew, as if by instinct, who Mary was—knew that she was looking at the maid whom Paul loved. She did not know that Mary had been to see her son, knew nothing of what had passed between them, knew nothing of what Mary had confessed. For the moment she seemed to think of her only as the girl to whom Paul had given his heart.

"Do you know who I am?" asked Mary.

"Yes, I know. Why have you come here?"

The girl was silent. She could not answer the question. Determined to save Paul as she was, she could not, at such a moment, make the reply which she longed to make.

"Has your father told you anything?"

"Told me anything? I do not understand."

"Ah!" replied the older woman, and she knew that Mary knew nothing of what had taken place between her and Judge Bolitho in that very room the night before.

"Let me look at you," she said presently. "Come here to the light," and taking hold of Mary's arm, she led her to the window, and scrutinised her face slowly.

"You're the lass that my Paul loves," she said, after some seconds. "You know he loves you, don't you? Of course you do. He told me about it himself. Oh, my laddie, my laddie!"

Mary did not speak. She seemed to be fascinated by something in the woman's eyes, while the tones of her voice thrilled her. She felt now how she loved her son, realised how deep was the passion which filled her whole being.

"He's in prison, accused of murder—you know that? He's to be tried again to-day."

Still Mary was silent. There seemed nothing for her to say.

"You love my lad, don't you? Ay, I see you do. Trust a mother to know. Yes, you love him, and he would die for you, willingly. Do you know that?"

"Yes," said Mary.

The interview was turning out altogether differently from what she had expected. This woman was leading her into paths she had not dreamt of.

"I'm his mother," went on the older woman, "and he's everything to me, everything! And I would stop at nothing to make him happy. I'd lay down my life, willingly, to bring joy into his heart. But do you understand? Do you know the truth?"

"What truth?" asked Mary. "I do not quite understand you. Do I believe Paul guilty? No, I don't. He could never do such a thing. He's too great, too noble."

"Do you say that? You?"

"Yes," replied Mary. "I am sure he never did such a thing. He's simply incapable of it. You know it, too, don't you? Of course you do."

"Then you take no notice of the evidence?"

"What's evidence?" asked the girl. "The one thing I'm sure of is that Paul never did what he is accused of. He simply couldn't."

"And you're his child!" said Paul's mother. "His child. Let me look at you again." She scrutinised Mary's face feature by feature. She seemed to be looking for something.

"You're a good lass," she said presently. "And you love Paul, don't you?"

"Yes," replied the girl, "I do." There seemed nothing incongruous in the confession, nothing strange in making it to the woman to whom she was speaking for the first time. And yet the interview was bewildering. Her thoughts, as she found her way along the grimy street, were clear enough. Now they were being scattered to the winds. Neither could she adhere to her resolution. How could she accuse this woman of such a terrible deed?

"What have you come here for?" asked Paul's mother presently.

"Need you ask?" asked Mary. "I've come to you because we must save Paul."

"Do you think Paul needs our help?" asked the other. "When the time comes Paul will clear himself. You do not know what a clever lad he is. I know what is being said about him. I read it all in the papers, but I don't fear. Paul is cleverer than all of them put together, and, of course, he never did it; he'll surely come triumphant out of this. Oh, I know it's terrible for him; but it's not that that makes me fear, it's something else!"

Again Mary's eyes met those of the other, and she was sure she detected a look of madness. The woman's mind was unhinged. She was not altogether responsible for what she was saying.

"No, it's not that," continued Paul's mother. "It's not that. Paul is so clever that he will beat them all."

"Not unless the real murderer confesses," replied Mary. "You see, I know what Law Courts are, and what juries are, and I've read every word of the evidence, and unless the real murderer is found, I am afraid—terribly afraid!"

"You mean that they will hang him?"

Mary was silent. She felt she could not utter the words that hung upon her lips.

"That's why I've come to you," said Mary. For the moment she felt like uttering the thoughts which had been haunting her throughout the night, but it seemed as though something sealed her lips.

"Will you not help me?" she said. "We must work together."

For a moment Mary had made the other feel what she felt herself—that Paul's life was really in danger—but only for a moment.

"No, no," she cried. "They'll never hang him when they know what I know!"

"What do you know? Tell me," cried Mary, feeling that she was nearing the object after which she strove.

"Yes, you must know. The truth must come out. After last night it cannot be hidden long."

"My father, as you know, is the judge," said Mary. "And he must do his duty. It's not he who's responsible; it is the jury, you know."

There was something unreal in her words, and they seemed to pass her lips without any effort on her own part. Paul's mother almost laughed.

"Why is it I feel so tender towards you?" she said, "when you are his child? I expect it is because I know that Paul loves you and that you love him. I ought to hate you. I can't understand why I don't. And then everything is so tangled too."

Mary was sure now that she was talking to a mad woman. Her words were meaningless. They were simply the ravings of a disordered mind.

"Can a man condemn his own son to death?" continued the older woman. "Now that he knows the truth, can he send him to be hanged?"

Mary began to be afraid. The woman's wild, unreasoning words and the strange look in her eyes almost frightened her.

"I do not think you realise what you are saying."

"Not realise?" was the reply. "Oh, my lass, my lass! Yes, I see you think I'm mad. It would be no wonder if I were. I've gone through enough to unhinge any woman's mind; but, no, I am not mad. Yes, I may as well tell you, for you must know sooner or later, that judge—Judge Bolitho as you call him—your father, is Paul's father too, and my husband. Paul has told you about it, hasn't he? He married me when I was a girl up among the Scotch hills, and he's Paul's father, and he's your father too. Don't you see?"

For a moment Mary was almost stunned. In spite of the wild words which she heard, she could not help being convinced of their truth. Her mind fled to the interview she had had with her father on the previous night, and what the woman had said seemed to explain the terror in his eyes and the mystery of his words.

"My father, Paul's father!"

"Yes; he courted me as Douglas Graham. How he changed his name I don't know yet; that will come, I suppose. He is my husband and Paul's father. I told him so last night, so he knows—knows everything. Why didn't he tell you? But—don't you see?—he cannot condemn Paul to death. How can a father condemn his own son?"

The two stood close by the window, and Paul's mother still had her hand upon Mary Bolitho's shoulder, and was looking into her face. Mary felt the hand tremble, and saw the strong woman reel to and fro.

"You are ill, Mrs. Stepaside," cried Mary; and then, scarcely knowing what she was doing, she led her to a chair.

"My lass," said the woman, "take me home. Take me to the home Paul gave me. I cannot think here. I cannot stay any longer. Will you?"

"You mean that you wish me to go to Brunford with you?" asked Mary.

"Ay, if you will, my lassie. I think I am going to be ill. I feel as though I have borne all I am able to bear, and I want to get home—to the home which Paul gave me. Will you come with me?"

Mary was almost overwhelmed by what she had heard during the last few minutes. She was not sure that the woman's story was true, and yet she felt it might be, that it probably was. She wanted to be alone to think. If her father were Paul's father, then, then——

The thought was staggering, overwhelming, but above and beyond everything, Paul's safety, Paul's salvation was her great and paramount thought. She quickly made up her mind what to do. She could do no good in Manchester, and if she accompanied this woman to Brunford she might be able to find proofs to confirm her convictions.

"Yes; I will go with you," she said.

"Thank you, my lassie. Ay, but you're a good child, and you're bonnie, too. No wonder my Paul loves you better than he loves his mother!"

"Are you sure you are well enough to travel?" asked Mary.

"Yes, I am sure I'm well enough to get home."

"Then excuse me for a little while," said Mary. "I will go back to the hotel and pack a few things, and come for you with a cab. In half an hour I will be here. Can you get ready in that time?"

"Ay, I'll be ready; you need not fear."

A few minutes later Mary was back at the hotel again. When she arrived there she found that her father had gone. It was still early for the assize courts, but she paid no attention to it. There was doubtless sufficient reason for her father's early departure. Perhaps, perhaps—— But she could not formulate the thoughts which one after another flashed through her mind. Seizing a piece of paper, she scribbled a hasty note and gave it to the hall porter.

"This is for Judge Bolitho," she said, and then, entering the cab which waited for her, she drove quickly to Dixon Street. Arriving there she found Paul's mother was ready for her, and ere long they were in the train bound for Brunford.

During the journey scarcely a word passed between them. Mary was busy with her own thoughts. She was trying to bring some order out of the confusion of the events which had been narrated to her. Everything was altered. If what the woman had told her was true—and in spite of everything she believed it was—then Paul was her half-brother; and if Paul were her half-brother and his mother were still alive, then, then——

But she would not trouble about this, bewildering as it was. What mattered her own future? What mattered what the world might say? Her first business was to save Paul, and save him she would, at all hazards. She looked at her companion, who sat near to her staring into vacancy. Mary's excited imagination began to conjure up wild fancies as she looked. She thought of what Paul's mother must have been twenty-five years before, tried to picture her as a girl. Yes, she must have been very beautiful, and might easily have attracted such a young man as her father was at the time. She fancied the two up among the bare Scottish hills, saw the flash of the young girl's eyes when the stranger told her he loved her, realised the throbbing of her heart, the joy, the wonder which must have possessed her when she promised to be his wife. For the moment all the grim realities of the present seemed to retire to the background. She lived in the world of fancy, of imagination, and the poetry and the romance of the past became very beautiful to her. Strange to say, her own part in the affair did not for the moment trouble her. The terrible logic of events were not yet real to her. By and by they would appear to her in all their ghastly nakedness, but now they did not seem to matter.

"If I am going to be ill," said Paul's mother, "you'll stay with me, won't you?"

"Yes," she replied, not realising what the words might mean.

"You see I shall be all alone. I have no friends in Brunford. Many would have liked to be friends with me for Paul's sake, but I kept them all at a distance. You see I waited until my name was cleared, and it will soon be cleared now."

"What do you mean?"

"Why, he knows, he knows everything—I mean your father. He's afraid of Paul, I know he is; he always has been. It's strange that Paul is not anything like him, isn't it? Paul has black hair and black eyes, just as I have. He's my boy, my boy! Thank God for that! And they can't harm him, can they? You are sure of that."

Mary was silent. The meaning of the work she had to do became real to her now. She, too, believed that no harm could come to Paul, but she realised the cost of his salvation. Paul could never be saved until the true murderer was found and proved to be the murderer.

"I am afraid I am going to be ill," went on the older woman. "These last few weeks have been too much for me. And you've promised to stay with me, haven't you?"

"Yes," replied Mary eagerly. "I'll stay with you, and you must tell me everything."

"Everything? What do you mean?"

"Oh, everything," replied Mary, and into her heart came the determination to wring the confession from her at whatever cost.

Presently the smoky chimneys of Brunford appeared, and Mary looked out of the carriage window over the great, ugly town; but somehow it did not seem ugly to her—the grey sky, the long rows of cottages, the hundreds of chimneys belching out half-consumed coals did not repel her. This was Paul's town. He was member of Parliament for it. It was here he had made his position. It was here, too, she had first seen him, and here he had learnt to love her.

"You've never seen the home Paul has given me?" she heard her companion say. "It is the prettiest home in Brunford. Paul did it all for me. You won't think you're in Brunford when you get there. It's quiet and clean up there. The birds sing in the springtime, and the smoke doesn't blow that way as a rule. I never saw another house like it. Oh! I would gladly die there. All I want now is to see my Paul happy. As for the other man——"

She ceased speaking here, and Mary noted the angry flash of her eyes, watched the quivering lips, and wondered of what she was thinking.

"There will be no servants in the house," went on Paul's mother presently. "They are in Manchester. They have been summoned for witnesses. But I told Mrs. Bradshaw to keep everything bright and clean, as I might come home any minute. I thought that before now Paul and I would be back together, and so she'll be expecting us. You're not hungry, are you?"

"No," said Mary.

"I expect he'll be acquitted to-day," she went on. "That man can't sit in judgment on him any longer now, and the people will be glad. Won't there be shouting when my Paul comes home?"

When they arrived at Brunford station, Mary noted how the porters looked curiously at them and spoke one to another in whispers. She knew that before an hour was over the whole town would be talking about them. They would be wondering why she, the judge's daughter, should accompany the mother of the man who was accused of murder. But she did not trouble about it. She called a cab, and a few minutes later they were on their way to Paul's home.

Mary began to get excited. Once in Paul's house she would be able to examine everything, and would perhaps discover things that would lead the woman by her side to make her confession. She felt sure that she was on the track of discovery, felt convinced that before long the truth would come to light.

When they arrived at the house Mary found the door standing open, and a motherly-looking woman waiting to receive them.

"I've done as yo' told me, Mrs. Stepaside," said Mrs. Bradshaw the woman. "There's a fire in the kitchen range, and another in the study, and everything is clean and nice."

"Mrs. Stepaside is not very well," said Mary quietly. "I've come with her from Manchester. But she will be all right with me."

"And who might yo' be?" asked Mrs. Bradshaw suspiciously.

"I'm Mrs. Stepaside's friend," she replied. "Will you lead the way to the room where the fire is?"

A few minutes later they were in the house alone. Mrs. Bradshaw had brought a cup of tea, and then, saying she'd be back again presently, had left them.

"Somehow I don't feel a bit lonely now you're here. Why is it, I wonder?" and the older woman looked into Mary's face curiously.

"I'm glad you're not lonely," said Mary. "Are you well enough to talk?"

"Ay, I'm feeling ever so much better. I wonder why it is?"

"Did you sleep last night?" asked Mary.

"Nay, I couldn't sleep. Was it any wonder? You see we met after all those long years, and I told him the truth. Ay; but he's suffering—he's suffering! And it's right he should, too. Ay, and I'm suffering, too, my lassie. I feel strange. I think I'll go to bed if you'll help me."

As Mary helped her upstairs she felt like one in a dream. Everything was intangible, unreal. What was she doing in this house? What right had she to be waiting on this woman so carefully and tenderly, when she was guilty of the awful deed which threatened to bring Paul to the gallows? But she spoke no word.

A little later they were in the bedroom together, and Mary was ministering to her with almost tender solicitude.

"Sit by me while I sleep, won't you? I don't know how long it is since sleep came to me, but I feel now as though I could rest. Ay, lass, but you are bonnie! It's no wonder that my Paul loves you."

Her overwrought powers had doubtless given way. The scenes through which she had passed had made her incapable of realising the true consequences of everything. Mother Nature had come to her aid, and in her own way was applying healing balm.

A little later she was sleeping like a child.

Mary sat almost motionless by her side for some time. Things were turning out altogether differently from what she had expected. Up to the present she had made no accusation. She had not even suggested what she was sure was the truth. She wondered why it was. All the same, she waited, feeling sure that her time would come.

Presently, noting that Paul's mother was not likely to wake, she left the room; and then, led by a strange curiosity, wandered round the house. She went into Paul's bedroom. She knew it was his by a thousand things. Here he had dreamed his dreams and made his plans. He had dreamed of her, doubtless, not knowing that she was his sister—his sister! She could not realise it. Her brain, her heart, refused to accept it as a fact, and yet she felt sure it was so. Again she went into the study, the little den which Paul had taken so much care to furnish. She looked lovingly at his books and noted those which he had evidently used most. She went to the writing-table where he had done his work, and noted the various pictures which hung around the room. It was not like the ordinary Lancashire manufacturer's house at all. It suggested the student, the man of letters, the lover of art. And how silent it was! Away in the distance was the hum of the busy town, but here, sheltered by the great hills which sloped away behind, all was peace. After sitting for a time, she went into Paul's mother's bedroom again, and watched her as she lay asleep. Could what she had dreamt of be true? Could this woman who lay sleeping as peacefully as a child be guilty of the terrible crime of which she had accused her? In her sleep she looked almost like a girl. The lines had somehow left her face, as though an angel's hand had wiped them out. A smile was upon her lips. In her sleep she did not suggest a strong, passionate woman, but the girl whom any lad might love.

She left the room again and wandered aimlessly around. She found a strange interest in being in Paul's home. She felt, too, as though she had a right there; and why should she not have that right, since Paul was her brother? More than once she looked toward the garden gate as if expecting that he would come in. She did not think of him as being tried for his life in the assize courts at Manchester. But she had strange fancies of what was happening there. What would her father say? What would he do?

Presently she heard shrill cries in the road not far distant. She listened attentively.

"Wonderful confession at Manchester!" It was a boy's voice she heard, and every word reached her clearly.

"Strange confession by the judge! Paul Stepaside's father!"

Heedless of what she was doing, she rushed down the garden path, and found her way into the street in the near distance. A boy was selling newspapers. She bought one, and hurried back to the house. She had no idea of the lapse of time, did not realise that it was now three o'clock in the afternoon. She had come by a slow train from Manchester, and Paul's mother had been sleeping for hours.

Eagerly she opened the paper, and there, great staring headlines met her gaze. For a long time she was absorbed by what she read. There, in cold, plain words, was her father's confession. It was true, then; every word of it was true. She did not know why she did it, but, taking the paper in her hand, she hurried upstairs to the bedroom where she had left Paul's mother asleep. The town hall clock was chiming in the distance. She looked at her own watch, and saw that it was half-past four. She had been reading the paper for an hour. As she entered the woman on the bed awoke.

"Something's happened, my lassie. What is it?"

"It's all here," said Mary. "It's all here. Shall I read it to you?"

CHAPTER XXIX

MARY'S ACCUSATION

As Mary looked at Paul's mother she noted the improvement in her looks. The wild, mad expression of her eyes had gone. She appeared more human, more womanly.

"Yes, read it to me," she said. "It's something about Paul, isn't it? Have they acquitted him?"

"Listen!" said Mary. "A wonderful thing's happened. What you told me was true. My father has made a confession before the court. Oh! what it must have cost him!"

"Confession? Read it! Read it!"

And Mary read, while the woman lay still and silent.

The paper which she had obtained was one of the principal Manchester evening journals. The members of its staff had, immediately after Judge Bolitho's confession, rushed eagerly to the office with their copy. Perhaps it was one of the most graphic descriptions of the scene which appeared in any journal, and caught more truly the inwardness of the event which set all Lancashire talking, than any other. Mary read the whole story from beginning to end; read the description of Paul's entrance into the prisoner's dock, the great excitement which pervaded the court as all present waited for the judge; read the description of how his lordship looked, and of the tremendous emotion under which he was labouring. It was a fine piece of journalism, done by a man who afterwards occupied a high position on one of the great London dailies. He made the scene live, made everything so real and vivid that these women, who were so terribly interested in the story, saw everything as he saw.

Paul's mother lay rigid as Mary read the judge's words, until finally she came to the confession. "This I do wish to say, here in the presence of those who have gathered together to witness this trial. Paul Stepaside is my lawful son, and, unknowingly, I have sinned against him grievously and greatly; his mother is my lawful wife. He is my lawful son, and I do here and now confess the wrong which I have done to him, and I do it because my conscience commands me to do so, and because I wish to ask my son's forgiveness."

As Mary read these words the woman rose in her bed and gave a cry of joy.

"At last! At last!" she said. "But I never thought he would do this. No, no; I never dreamed of it. He's confessed it before everyone. Don't you see, my lassie? He's confessed it there in the open court that I'm his lawful wife and that Paul is his lawful son! There's no stain upon his name now—and no stain on mine either!"

She sat up in the bed, her eyes aglow. She was radiant. She did not think of what this might mean to Mary, did not realise that the vindication of her own honour might mean Mary's shame. That never entered into her mind. All her thought was of Paul; and even her joy that all disgrace was taken away from her was because thereby Paul's name would be honoured. She looked years younger. It seemed as though a great weight had rolled from her mind, as though the dark skies had been made clear and the sun were shining.

"Are you not glad, my lassie? Does it not rejoice your heart? Think of it! Think of it!"

But Mary was silent. Naturally, the happenings of the day had bewildered her, almost unhinged her own mind. She thought, too, of what her father had suffered. No one knew better than she what a proud man he was and what it must have cost him to have made this confession. But more than all this she realised Paul's danger. Although she was greatly moved by the revelations which had been made, although her being had been aroused to its very depths and her life become revolutionised, the thought which was above every other thought was Paul's safety. She knew what her father's confession would mean. If he could no longer be the judge, then another would be appointed; and as she read her father's words she seemed to feel that he believed his son to be guilty of the deed of which he was accused. And if her father believed this, would not the judge who would try the case anew believe it also? And if the judge believed it, would not the jury believe it, and condemn him?

"What is the matter, my lassie? You don't look glad. You are pale. What do you fear?"

Even then Paul's mother did not think of what it might mean to Mary. Nothing mattered but her own son.

"But what of Paul?" Mary said. "We must save him!"

"Paul, Paul? What do you mean?"

"I am afraid," said Mary. "Do you not see what my father said? 'If Paul Stepaside is guilty of the murder of Edward Wilson——' Oh, don't you see—don't you see?"

"But they cannot harm my Paul—they cannot, they cannot!"

"But we must save him!" cried Mary. "Do you know of anything? You do, don't you? Paul never committed this murder. He couldn't do it. But unless the real murderer is found he will have to die. Don't you understand?"

"Paul die? Paul die?"

"Yes; they will condemn him unless the real murderer appears. Everyone says so. And you know who did it, don't you?"

"Do you mean to say that you think my Paul cannot get himself off?"

"Oh, don't you realise?" cried Mary. "Jurymen are stupid. They only look at the surface of things. Of course I know he didn't do it. I know he couldn't! But unless the truth comes to light, the jury will condemn him, and then, no matter who is judge, he will be hanged! Don't you see—don't you see?"

"Do you believe this?"

"I can't help believing it," replied the girl. "I've heard my father discuss law cases again and again, and I know what will happen. Won't you tell what you know? Won't you confess? For you do know, don't you?"

"But do you mean that you, who love my Paul, who believe in him, who know how clever he is, and who are sure he's innocent, do you believe that he can't clear himself?"

"How can he, when the evidence all points to him? Someone killed Ned Wilson. Someone struck the blow with Paul's knife. Don't you see? Who did it? You know!"

"I know?"

"Yes, you know. Paul is trying to shield someone; you know he is. Who is he trying to shield? He's giving his life for someone. Who would he give his life for? He's refused to go into the witness-box, refused to confide in anyone. Don't you see the meaning of it? Who is there in Brunford or anywhere else that Paul would be willing to die for?—for that is what it means. Why is he silent? You know; tell me."

The girl was wrought up to such a pitch of excitement now that she did not care what she said; neither had she any pity in her heart. She felt almost angry, too, that this woman should be so rejoiced because of what she had read to her when all the time Paul was in danger of death. What mattered name, what mattered honour, what mattered anything if Paul were pronounced guilty?

"I know, my lassie. I know," cried the woman.

"Of course you know—you must know. Who is Paul trying to shield, tell me that? Who went into Paul's office and got the knife? Paul did not kill Ned Wilson. Who did? Tell me that!"

She fixed her eyes on the elder woman, and there was such intensity in her look, such passion in the words she had spoken, that at length Paul Stepaside's mother guessed what was in her heart.

"You believe that Paul is shielding me?" she said quietly. "You believe that I murdered him?" and her voice was hard and stern.

"It was not Paul who did it," said Mary. "Although a thousand men were to swear they saw him do it, I would not believe them. Who did it, then?"

"And you believe that?"

"Who is Paul trying to shield?" repeated the girl, with almost monotonous iteration.

For a few seconds a painful silence fell between them, and it was evident by the look on the face of the elder woman that she was thinking deeply.

"Do you believe," and her voice was almost hoarse, "do you believe, my lassie, that Paul is lying in that gaol charged with murder because he wants to shield me?"

"What else can I believe?" cried Mary. "Tell me the truth. You say you love your son; if your love is worth anything, you will confess to the truth!"

Again a painful silence fell between them. The elder woman, who sat up in bed, seemed to be trying to realise the meaning of the other's words. She might have been living over the night of the murder again.

Presently she fixed her gaze upon Mary, and the girl saw that the old mad light was coming back into her eyes again.

"You believe that—that!" she gasped. Her body swayed to and fro for a moment, and then she fell back on the bed like one dead.

A great fear came into Mary's heart. She believed that Paul's mother, stricken to the heart by her accusation, and realising the terrible import of her silence, had been killed by her words. For a moment she did not know what to do, but, soon overcoming her weakness, she tried to restore her to life. She put her ear over the heart of the prostrate form on the bed, and gave a cry of satisfaction. "No; she's not dead, she's not dead!"

But what could she do? She was there alone in the house with this unconscious woman. She had little or no knowledge of nursing, and she did not know how to obtain help. But help she must obtain. This woman must not die—at least, before she had made her full confession. Even yet Paul's safety was the great thought in her mind. Nothing seemed to matter beside that.

There was a sound of footsteps, and she heard Mrs. Bradshaw's voice asking whether she could do anything. It seemed like Providence that the woman should have entered at this moment, and eagerly she rushed to her.

"Mrs. Stepaside is worse!" she cried. "She ought to have a doctor. Could you run and fetch one?"

"My boy's at home," said Mrs. Bradshaw. "I'll send him up to Dr. White's house at once. He's the best man in Brunford, and he's friendly with Paul, too."

"Does he live far away?"

"No, not so far. There are one or two others who live nearer, but I don't reckon much on 'em."

"Run, then, quick!" said Mary. "There's no time to be lost."

"Ay, and after I've sent Peter Matthew I'll come in again and get you something to eat. You must be fair pined."

Mary returned to the room again, and waited what seemed to her an interminable length of time, looking anxiously at the sick woman the whole time. She lay very still, almost motionless in fact, but Mary was sure she was not dead, and she prayed as she had never prayed before that she might live. As it seemed to her, it was not Paul's mother's life that hung in the balance, but Paul's.

At length Dr. White came, and went quickly into the bedroom. Dr. White was a tall, spare man, between forty and fifty years of age. He was one of those doctors who loved his profession with a love almost amounting to passion, and he had worked himself almost to a skeleton. People said that he ought to be a very rich man, but he was not. A great part of the service he rendered was a labour of love. Scores of people in Brunford wondered why he never sent a bill to them, and when he was asked the reasons for his remissness, he always put the inquirers off with a laugh. "Oh, you'll be getting it some day." The truth was he hated sending bills to poor people, and his great delight was not in receiving cheques or payment for his services, but in seeing his patients restored to health and strength again. He was almost worshipped in the town, and, indeed, no one worked so hard for the good of the people as he did in his own way.

When he entered the room he looked at Mary rather wonderingly, but asked no questions. He went straight to the patient's bedside, and examined her carefully. When he had completed his examination he turned to the young girl, who was watching him with wide, staring eyes.

"When did this happen?" he said.

Mary began to explain Mrs. Stepaside's relationship to the accused man in Manchester and of the sufferings through which she had gone.

"I know all about that," said the doctor. "But tell me the immediate cause of this."

As may be imagined, this was a difficult task, but Mary's ready wit helped her through with it.

"I brought her from Manchester this morning," she said. "She did not seem very well then, and she asked me to come with her. Then, then——" And her eyes rested upon the newspaper which she had been reading.

"Oh, I see," said the doctor. "It was a sudden shock. Yes; it's quite understandable—long weeks of suspense and agony, and then this on the top of it!" He did not ask any further questions, for Dr. White was a wise man. He knew the whole circumstances of Paul's arrest, and was therefore able to estimate the truth.

"Mrs. Stepaside has had a great shock. Of course, I need not repeat that, and she may lie like this for some days. One cannot tell the developments which will take place."

"Do you think she will die?" asked Mary anxiously.

"She's had enough to kill her, anyhow!" replied the doctor, "but she may pull through. We'll do our best. Whatever happens, nothing must be said or done to agitate her—you understand that? I fancy she will have fleeting periods of consciousness, but she must be always met with a smile. I am sure you understand this?"

"But how long will it be before—before she is allowed to talk?"

"Weeks!" replied the doctor shortly; and the word seemed like a knell of death. If Paul's mother were not allowed to speak, if she could not make her confession, then Paul might die! The thought was horrible, yet what could she do? Even if she became strong enough to speak and to make her confession, it would not be of any value. Any judge or jury would regard it as the ravings of a disordered mind.

"You're here alone," went on the doctor. "Of course I understand why you came with her," and again he looked at the newspaper which Mary had been reading.

The girl did not reply, and the doctor went on. "But you must have help. It would be madness for you to remain here alone. Of course the servants are in Manchester. They have been summoned as witnesses. But do not trouble; I'll help you. I'll send a nurse at once, and I think I can manage about the servants, too—that's the best of knowing everyone, Miss Bolitho. I'll call again in a couple of hours. Good-day."

To Mary the man's conduct seemed utterly brutal. He uttered no word of comfort. The few words he spoke were curt, almost harsh; and yet she knew he was a kind man. She continued to sit by the bed, looking at the sick woman's face, her heart filled with a great dread. She could do nothing. She must only remain there and wait and watch.

In about an hour Dr. White returned. This time there was a nurse with him. Mary did not know that he had, on leaving her, driven to the hospital at a speed which endangered the community, obtained the services of a nurse, and then came back at the same headlong pace. She did not know, either, that he had set means on foot whereby a capable woman would be secured to look after the house. Dr. White was not a man who talked much, but he did a great deal. He seemed to be pleased with the patient's condition on his return. As far as he could judge there were no evil signs.

"Now, Miss Bolitho," he said as he went away, "I want you to understand that Paul Stepaside's mother is not the only patient I have. You are another. You must go to bed immediately."

"I could not—I could not!" she cried.

"Very well, then," said the doctor. "I noticed as I came up that there was a fire in Stepaside's study. There's a comfortable sofa there. Go and lie down."

"I could not lie down!"

"But I say you can, and you must!" said the doctor. "Here, I've brought something for you."

He poured a powder into a glass of water, and bade Mary drink it. The girl obeyed him.

"Now," he said. "Come down at once."

He led her downstairs by the arm into Paul's study, and having arranged the cushions on the sofa, he insisted on her lying down. Seizing a rug, he wrapped her up in it just as a father might.

"I'm not going to have you ill," he said. "Remember that! I'll call again to-night, but not before ten o'clock. I've a busy evening before me. In less than half an hour you'll be asleep, and you'll sleep for at least three hours; then you'll wake up better. By that time some dinner will be ready for you. What a grand thing it is to have a meddling fellow who takes everything out of your hands, isn't it?" and he gave the ghost of a laugh.

A few minutes later Mary felt a sense of drowsiness creeping over her, and then became unconscious.

When she awoke again it was to find her father sitting by her side.

She started up from the couch, for the moment unable to realise the situation. At first she thought she was back in the hotel in Manchester, but in a few seconds she realised the truth.

"Father!" she exclaimed.

"Yes, Mary. I felt sure you'd come here. Directly I could get away I came as fast as I could, but the trains are terribly slow. I've only been here a few minutes."

For a few seconds there was a silence between them. Each seemed to know all that the other was thinking.

"I felt I must have a talk with you, Mary," said Judge Bolitho at length. "There are so many things to say, and so many things to do. Could I stay here to-night, I wonder? I must go back to Manchester again to-morrow morning."

"Why, father?"

"Of course you have read the newspapers. You know what took place in Manchester this morning?"

He spoke calmly and collectedly now. In one sense it seemed as though a great burden had been lifted from his mind. From the way he spoke, too, he might regard his confession as of little import.

"Father," cried the girl, "it's so bewildering, so terrible!"

"Yes, yes; I know. I've a great deal to tell you some time, Mary, but not now. You see I've passed through a great deal during the last twenty-four hours. All life has changed. What the future may bring forth God only knows. But I've done the right thing now. I sometimes think, Mary, that one of the greatest sins in life, the sin which leads the way to more than any other, is that of cowardice; and I was a coward. My God! what a coward I was! And I'm paying for it now. But for that I might have been a happy man; I might have had——"

He rose to his feet as he spoke and walked across the room. He seemed to be pondering deeply.

"Of course you despise me, Mary," he said. "You cannot help it. Everyone despises me. It's right and natural. I needn't tell you any further about it now, need I? You've read what is in the paper? You understand?"

"Yes, I think, I—I—I think I understand. But, father, we must save Paul! Whatever happens, we must save Paul!"

"If it is possible," said the judge. "For, oh! God helping me—— Yes, I should die! It would kill me if—if the worst comes to the worst! That's why I came, Mary. I must have another talk with her. I think after to-morrow I shall be free; but I must go to Manchester then, perhaps to London. There are so many formalities to be complied with. But never mind, formalities or no formalities, nothing must stand in the way of his salvation."

"He's not guilty, father; you know that? He's been shielding someone all the time. That's why he would have no one to defend him. That's why he confided in no one. I'm sure of it!"

The judge nodded his head. He, too, had been thinking deeply, and his trained mind had gone farther into the matter than that of Mary.

"Yes; I've been thinking of that," was his reply. "In fact, I felt almost sure of it when I went to see him to-day."

"You've, been to see him to-day? What? Since what you said in the court? What did he say? How did he look? Did he—did he——"

"The thing that troubles me," said the judge, interrupting, "is this—who is Paul trying to shield?"

The girl looked anxiously around the room, then went to the door and peered into the passage outside.

"Can't you think, father? Whom would he be likely to shield? I accused her of it this afternoon. I could not help it. The doctor doesn't know, but that's why she's so ill now. When she realised what I meant, she seemed like one struck down by a blow."

"You mean to say," he gasped, "that you believe Jean—that is, his mother—was——" He did not finish the sentence. It seemed too horrible, too terrible.

"No, Mary," he continued at length. "That's not it."

"But it must be, father."

"No; that's not it. Now then, tell me everything you know. You went to Dixon Street this morning; the woman told me all about it. You brought her here. You had a talk with her. Tell me everything that has taken place. You went to see Paul before the trial, too. Tell me everything."

Half an hour later Judge Bolitho was in possession, not only of all that Mary knew, but of all her suspicions and her reasons for those suspicions. He had submitted her to a very thorough cross-examination. His mind had fastened upon a hundred things of which she had taken no cognisance. He saw through the fallacies of her reasoning, and drew his conclusions accordingly. His mind was quick and active now. It seemed as though his freedom from the responsibilities of his judgeship gave him a sense of liberty. The fact that he had work to do had done something to lessen the remorse which was gnawing at his heart.

"I must go over this whole business again, Mary," he said. "Did you say that you had those Brunford papers here with you?"

"Yes, father; every one."

"And I have all the other facts since. Oh, my boy, my boy!"

"You believe you can save him?"

"I will, I will!" he cried. "I have sinned, but God will never allow me to suffer this. He could not. One thing my confession to-day will do, too—it will give me time. There's sure to be some delay before another judge is appointed, and the whole case will have to be tried again. Meanwhile I must be up and doing."

"Oh, if she were only conscious!" said Mary. "But the doctor says that perhaps she will be unconscious for weeks, and under no circumstances must she be questioned."

"Did she speak of me?" asked the judge.

"Only indirectly."

"Did she seem to despise me—hate me?"

The girl was silent, and the judge understood what her silence meant.

"It's just," he said. "It's just. But I must save Paul!"

A knock came to the door, and the woman whom Dr. White had obtained told them there was food in the dining-room.

"Thank you," said the judge. "Yes, we must eat, Mary; it seems like waste of time, but we must. And after we have had some dinner I'll read through everything again. There must be a way out. Are you well enough to run upstairs, Mary, and ask how—how—she is?"

There was a strange, yearning look in his eyes as he spoke. He might have been ashamed, too—there was indeed a change in Judge Bolitho.

"She's no worse," said Mary, coming down a few minutes later. "The nurse says she is sleeping peacefully. The doctor will be here in a little while now. He seems a very hard-hearted man, but he admires Paul greatly, and he's very clever."

During the meal both of them were silent. Each, of them had much food for thought, and there are times when words are vain.

"To think," said the judge, when they had finished their dinner, "that I should be here in this way, in my son's house, and that his mother—— Mary, bring me those papers, will you?"

A little later he was deeply immersed in the early history of the trial, noting each detail, fastening upon every weakness of the charge and the difficulties of defence. It seemed to him as though he were practising at the bar again, and he were preparing his case for the defence of the prisoner. But this time he had an interest never known to him before. It was for him to fight for the life of his own son.

Presently he heard the doctor's step on the stairs. He had been in the sick-room, and when he had finished his visit, Mary had led him to the room where her father was. Dr. White looked at the judge curiously. At each house he had called that afternoon there was but one subject of discussion. No one knew that Judge Bolitho was in Brunford; had they done so, excitement would have exceeded all bounds; but as it was, the confession which he had made had set the whole town talking.

"Will you tell me how my wife is?" asked the judge.

"Your wife?" queried the doctor.

"Yes, my wife. Will you tell me how she is?"

The doctor gave a significant glance at Mary, which the judge was not slow to interpret; but he made no sign. Now that he had made his confession and told the truth, he was the same proud man who, not long before, had been Member of Parliament for that town.

"She's very ill," said the doctor.

"But she will not die, will she?"

"Of course, that's impossible to say. She's a strong woman, but she's had—well, you know what she's had to bear."

The judge nodded. "But will she get better?"

"I do not think she will die just yet."

"What do you mean by that?"

"I think it is possible her body may recover."

"But her mind?" said the judge, noting the significance of the doctor's words.

"Concerning her mind I can promise nothing," said the doctor. "The strain she has borne for so long has been enough to drive one of her sensitive nature mad."

The judge was silent for a few seconds, then he spoke in his old, almost authoritative tones.

"Let nothing be left undone, doctor," he said. "Engage any help you think may be of value to you. You know the best man in your profession. Get into communication with him at once. We must fight, man; we must fight!"

There was a ring of defiance in his voice, and even then Mary thought how different he was from the preceding night, when she had parted from him in Manchester.

"Have you made up your mind what to do, father?" she asked, when the doctor had gone.

"Yes, I have. By the way, Mary, I know you must be longing to ask questions about yourself, but——"

"Don't trouble about me now, father. I know what you are thinking of. But my name, my future, are nothing compared with—— Oh, father, we must save Paul!"

"If it is within the realm of human possibility we will, Mary."

"And you believe it is?"

"Give me three days," said the father, "and then perhaps I can tell you."

CHAPTER XXX

THE TESTIMONY OF ARCHIE FEARN

"Father, have you discovered anything?"

"Nothing," and the judge shook his head despondently. "It seems as though every road is a cul-de-sac. I have followed up hundreds of clues, and they have all ended in nothing."

"You know what I believe, father?"

"I know, Mary; but you're wrong."

"But Paul never did it!" She seemed never to grow weary of making this assertion. No matter how strong the evidence might be, no matter what the world might say, nothing shook her.

"Branscombe thinks so."

"He has not told you, has he?"

"Oh, no. I have not said a word to him about the trial; but I've been reading the evidence this evening—you know, the case came on again this morning—and it's clear to me from his questions that he has no doubt about the matter. Things looked very black against Paul when the case was adjourned this evening."

A look of wild terror came into Mary's eyes. "But, father, don't you see?" she cried. "Paul had no secrets from his mother. He told her everything—everything. When he came home that night, after his quarrel with Wilson, he would tell the whole story to her. Afterwards—— Can't you see, father? Can't you see?"

"We've gone over this ground a hundred times," said the judge. "But it won't do, Mary. In any case, it would be impossible to make an accusation against her. No one saw her that night, and, as far as I can see, nothing can be traced to her in any way. And even if it could—— Don't you understand, Mary?"

"And will you allow Paul to be hanged?"

The judge was silent. They were sitting alone in Paul's study some days after the judge had made his confession. He had been true to his promise, and had devoted every possible moment to the elucidation of the mystery which faced him. He had brought all his knowledge of the law to bear upon it; he had utilised all his experience in the discovery of criminals; he had exerted himself to the utmost; but there was not a ray of light anywhere.

"Do you know anything? Have you heard anything more?" he asked.

"As you know," replied Mary, "she has not been fully conscious ever since that day. But I have found out something. This afternoon she has been much better, and now and then there seemed to be some return of reason."

"Well?"

"Well, her mind is full of this trial, full of the horror of Paul's situation—you can tell that from her wanderings—and this afternoon I heard her say these words: 'They make a great deal about the knife. They say no one could have got into the office; but I was in the office, and I saw the knife. Paul and I spoke about it.'"

"Yes," said the judge eagerly. "Was there anything else?"

"No, nothing more, nothing more; but surely it is enough?"

The judge was silent for a few seconds.

"If she had been able to attend as a witness this would have come out," he said. "I find that she was subpoenaed, but her illness makes it impossible for her to be there." And he gave a sigh, half of relief, half of sorrow.

"And can you do nothing, nothing?" asked Mary.

"Nothing yet," said the judge.

"But you cannot believe they will find him guilty?"

"Paul will be allowed to make a speech in his own defence. He may work wonders that way. He has done very little cross-examining to-day, but that may be part of his method. I think he's going to rely on his analysis of evidence. It's not an unsound process. Cross-examinations ofttimes mean very little. Justice Hawkins, you may remember, when he was practising at the Bar, used to depend almost entirely on his closing speech, and he won more cases than perhaps any other man. Still, we must not depend upon that. Nothing shall be left undone, Mary."

"Father, I'm going to see Paul."

"Better wait, better wait," he replied. "I am afraid a visit from you would do him more harm than good. You'd have to tell him about his mother's illness."

"I'm going to write to him to-night, anyhow," said Mary.

"But tell him nothing that will pain him, Mary."

When Mary left the room Judge Bolitho nearly lost control over himself. The days were slipping away, and nothing had been done. In spite of every inquiry he had made, he seemed to be getting no nearer to the solution he sought for. Like Mary, he was convinced that Paul had never done the deed; and yet, unless the murderer could be discovered, he could not close his eyes to Paul's face. For more than an hour he went over the whole miserable story again, connecting link with link, incident with incident, opinion with opinion. Still the same blank wall met him.

"I can't stay indoors any longer," he muttered. "I must get out into the open air."

It was now about nine o'clock, and, almost heedless whither he went, he found his way into the heart of the town. Judge Bolitho had by this time become an almost familiar figure among the people of Brunford. He had gone all over the town making inquiries. He had spent much time in the neighbourhood of Paul's factory making investigations. He had talked with all sorts of people, and all, knowing what he desired, had told him everything they knew. But still the secret remained a secret.

Presently he found himself in the market-place, where there were excited groups of people discussing that day's trial. The judge wandered from one group to another listening eagerly. A large ulster almost covered his face, for the nights were very cold, and but few recognised him. It seemed to be the settled conviction among the people that Paul's case was hopeless. At length he heard someone speaking who attracted his attention strangely. It was not because of what he said, but because of the unfamiliar accent which the judge immediately recognised. The man was a Scotsman, and he spoke with the accent common to that district where Jean was reared. The judge drew nearer and listened attentively.

"I tell you," said the man, "I saw this Bolitho when he was but a lad. My brother, Willie Fearn, courted Jean, and it was Bolitho who took her away from him. Ye dinna believe me? Am I not called Archie Fearn? Ay, but I know."

The men to whom he spoke laughed incredulously.

"Yo've been drinking too much Scotch whisky," said one with a laugh.

"I can carry more whisky than any man in Brunford," was his reply. "I was ne'er a steady, God-fearing man like my brother Willie. It might have been better for me if I had been. He's a rich man the noo, while I have to come to this dirty hole to get a living. Ay, I know more about this business than you think."

At this there was much incredulous laughter, and then Judge Bolitho heard the man cry out something about his having seen someone on the very night of the murder. The conversation was not by any means connected, but Judge Bolitho, anxious to catch at any straw, determined not to allow the Scotsman to escape him. It might end in nothing; still, there was possibly something in what the man had said.

A few minutes later Archie Fearn left his companions, evidently with the purpose of making his way to a public-house which stood at the corner of the Market Square. Before he reached it, however, the judge had come up to him and touched his arm.

"So you call yourself Archie Fearn now, do you?" he said quickly.

"Ay, and who dares say I'm not Archie Fearn?" replied the man. "Was I no born in Scotland? And do I not speak like a Scotsman?"

"You did not call yourself Archie Fearn the last time I saw you," said the judge.

"And when might ye have seen me?"

"I saw you in Liverpool two years ago. You called yourself John McPhail then, and it was my duty to give you six months with hard labour."

The man looked at the judge coolly. "Ay, very likely," he replied. "Ay, I remember noo, I remember noo," and he laughed significantly.

"Why do you laugh?" asked the judge.

"I was thinking," was the reply. "I think of mony things. The Scotch are a canny people. You'll be knowing that yourself, my lord."

"And you say you're Willie Fearn's brother?" said the judge.

"Ay, I am and all. It's perfectly true that Willie is an elder in the kirk, while I am—weel, what you see me; but, for all that, I know more about the fundamentals of doctrine than he does. I know the second catechism by heart, and I could put any meenister in this toon to shame. Ay, man, but if you want to hear preaching you must go to Scotland. It's there that the meenisters are groonded in the faith. In these English kirks they are very lax in the faith." And again the man laughed as though something amused him.

"You seem to boast a good deal of your knowledge," said the judge, trying to estimate the man.

"I ne'er boast," was the reply. "I'm just a canny Scotsman, that's all. If I told all I kenned—weel, I might become popular. But a still tongue makes a wise heid."

"If you are Willie Fearn's brother," said the judge, and it pained him to say what next passed his lips, but as I have said, he was eager to catch at any straw, "you knew Jean Lindsay?"

"Ay, I kenned her weel," was the reply. "But I was aboot to go into the 'Hare and Hoonds,' Mr. Judge Bolitho. Perhaps for the sake of the time when you called yourself Graham you might like to give me a drop of whisky?"

"Come with me," said the judge. "I want to talk with you. If we go up Liverpool Road it will be quiet there. But stay, come with me to the house I'm staying at."

"Dootless you keep a bottle of good whisky in the cupboard there?"

"You shall not regret going," said the judge, and he led the way to Paul's house.

Half an hour later the two sat together in Paul's study. During their walk thither the man of the law had been thinking deeply. He had been trying to piece together the conversation he had heard in the market-place, trying to understand the significance of what Archie Fearn had said. He had no great hope of important revelations, but a lifetime of legal training and practice had proved to him that oft-times the greatest issues depended on the most trivial circumstances, and he could not afford to allow the most insignificant happening to pass by unnoticed.

"How long have you been in Brunford?" asked the judge.

"Since a month before Christmas," was the reply.

"You came here to get work?"

"I came here because I wasn't known in the toon, and because I thought I might be able to pick up an odd sax-pence."

"You say you knew Jean Lindsay when she was a girl?"

"Syne I expected her to be my ain sister-in-law, it was very natural that I should," was the reply.

"Do you think you'd know her again if you saw her?"

"I kenned her the moment I saw her in the streets of this toon, not long before Christmas," was the reply.

"You saw her then?"

"Ay, I did. I saw her and recognised her, just as I recognised you. But it took me longer to mak you oot. Although, as you say, you gave me six months in Liverpool, did not, at that time, connect you with my ain hame. But when I saw your picture as large as life in the house where I lodged, I began to put things together. When I saw you in Liverpool you had your big wig on, and your judge's goon, that's what put me off there, I expect. But in your picture you looked more natural, and I said: 'That's the lad who took away my brother Willie's lass.'"

The judge's mind was working quickly by this time, and he saw that the incident might have great possibilities.

"And you say you saw Jean in the streets of Brunford?"

"Ay, I did."

"And did you speak to her?"

"Nay, not at the time. The sight of her gave me a shock, as you may say. But as I tell't you, the Scots are a canny race, so I asked a man in the street who she was, and he told me she was Mrs. Stepaside, and that led to other inquiries, till presently I found out all there was to know."

"And what then?" asked the judge.

"Your lordship is a rich man," replied Archie. "And you'll not be expecting me to tell all I know for nothing. And I'm in sair need of a drop of whisky, too!"

The judge took a couple of sovereigns from his pocket.

"When you tell me all you know, you shall have these," he said.

The Scotsman's eyes glittered greedily. "Two sovereigns; weel, it's a sma' sum, a sma' sum for the likes of you, and I think I can say something that will interest you, too. In Scotland we think a great deal of a five-poon note!"

"Very well," said the judge. "If you know anything worth telling me, and you speak plainly, you shall have the five-pound note."

"Of course, your lordship is a fair-minded man as far as money is concerned? I'll say nothing about anything else," and again the Scotsman laughed like one enjoying himself.

"You'll have to trust me for that," said the judge. "In any case, if you speak freely I'll give you the two sovereigns. If I judge your information to be important you shall have the five-pound note."

"It's this way," said Archie Fearn, "—and I think your lordship will see that what I have to tell ye is worth five poons, although I doot whether ye'll be pleased—when I discovered all aboot Jean, and what people were saying aboot her, and when I had made up my mind aboot Mr. Bolitho, who was at one time the Member of Parliament for this toon, I fell to thinking, and I was not long in assuring myself that Mr. Bolitho was the same lad who came to the Highlands lang years syne as Douglas Graham. Of course, I had heard a great deal about Paul Stepaside, and being, as I tell't ye, a reasoning man, I put two and two together. So I sent a letter to Jean, and asked her to meet me."

"A likely story!" said the judge.

"Like or not, it's true. And more than that, she came to see me on the very night that young Wilson was murdered, so noo then!"

"Then you spoke to her that night?"

"Ay, I did. I thought to myself, 'Now that Jean has plenty of siller she'll be glad to know the truth!'"

"And you told her the truth?"

"Ay, I did. I showed her your photograph which I'd brought with me. We were standing under a street-lamp, and I showed it to her. And there's not the slightest doot but she recognised you."

"What time was that?" asked the judge.

"It were late," said the man. "It must have been well after eleven o'clock."

"How long was she with you?"

"A goodish time, for she had many questions to ask, and we talked a good deal about old times. And I was not long in convincing her of the truth, I can tell ye. Ay, man, but you should have seen her face when she looked at your photograph. 'Oh, that's he, that's he!' she said."

"And then," said the judge, "did she come back here alone?"

"Nay, I walked back with her. Do ye think I'd be likely to allow a lass who was to have been my ain sister-in-law to come hame alone?"

"In what part of the town did you meet?"

"It was near the part they call Howden Clough."

"And at what hour did you return?"

"Oh, it must have been after midnight. You see," went on the Scotsman imperturbably, "I asked her to come and see me, and I fixed a late hour because I thought—weel; she might be a little more leeberal late at night than in the middle of the day. I have made a profound study of women, and I was in want of money at the time, and I thought I could make a better bargain with her. That's why I fixed a late hour for meeting. But I brought her home safely, and left her at the door here. It must have been in the early hours of the morning when I left her."

"Did you come into the house?"

"No; in that I thought Jean didn't act like an old neighbour should—seeing that at one time she was likely to be my sister-in-law! She didn't ask me in. Still, she seemed very grateful for the information I gave her."

"And you saw her go into the house early in the morning, you say?"

"Ay, I did."

"And then, did you go away immediately?"

"Nay, I waited out of curiosity for a few minutes. I heard the door snick, and then I waited until I saw a light in her bedroom. I said to myself, 'Jean will have a good deal to think about to-night.' I didn't think then that things would be so unfavourable to me."

"What do you mean?" asked the judge.

"Well, being, as I tell't you, a Scotsman, and a canny Scotsman at that, I naturally thought that the man who had discovered her husband for her would have a slight claim on her when she came into her own."

"Ah, I see," said the judge.

For more than an hour they sat talking, the Scotsman cool and self-contained, the judge asking keen, searching questions.

Presently Archie Fearn wended his way towards the part of the town where he had a lodging. "It's a peety the public-houses are all closed," he said, as he lovingly felt the five-pound note which the judge had given him. "Still, there's a to-morrow; and it may be I've done a good night's work after all."

As for the judge, he sat for a long time thinking. The house was now in silence. Everyone had gone to bed. He went upstairs and listened outside Mary's bedroom door. Evidently his daughter had retired. He went to the door of the room where his wife lay. All was silent. Then he came downstairs again.

"I am in my son's house," he said to himself, "and he—he's lying in Strangeways Gaol! I wonder whether, after all, this night may not mean a great deal. Anyhow, it's narrowed the circle of inquiry. It proves Jean was guiltless of this thing, and Mary altogether mistaken. I wonder what she will say when I tell her!"

The following morning he related to Mary what had happened on the previous night; told her in detail all that the man Fearn had said to him.

"You see, Mary," he said, "your suspicions were utterly wrong. The man's story has made it practically impossible for what you have thought to be true. Whoever committed the deed, it was not she—thank God for that!"

In spite of herself Mary was at length convinced. For hours she sat thinking over what her father had told her, considering the consequences of every point, and trying to see what they meant. Yes, he was right; and yet she felt sure that Paul believed in his mother's guilt, and that the reason of his silence was that he was trying to shield her. Then the old question came back to her. Paul did not commit this deed; who did it?

Presently Mary Bolitho gave a start as though some new thought had come into her mind. Her eyes flashed with a bright light. She seemed to see something which in the past had been hidden from her.

A few minutes later she was in the street, walking rapidly to Paul's factory. Arrived there, she asked for George Preston.

"He's in Manchester," was the reply. "He's there for the trial."

"But someone must be left in charge?" she urged.

"Ay, Enoch Standring is looking after things while they're away."

"I want to see him," said Mary. "Where is he?"

Without a word the youth to whom she had spoken led the way to Paul's office, where Enoch Standring was busily writing.

"I am Miss Bolitho," she said to the young man. "Perhaps you know me?"

"Yes," replied the other. "I know you very well by sight. What can I do for you?"

"You will naturally understand," said Mary, "that I am keenly interested in—in the trial in Manchester?"

"Naturally," said the young man.

"I suppose," said the girl, "you have in your books a record of all the people you employ?"

"Certainly."

"When they are engaged and when they leave?"

"Certainly—that is, we put their names down in a book when they come, and cross them off when they cease working for us."

"And you have all these books at hand?"

"Certainly," replied Standring. He was proud of the way in which the books of the firm of Stepaside and Preston were kept.

"How many hands do you employ?"

Standring told her.

"Will you let me see your books?"

"It's not usual," replied Standring. "You see, it's the wage-book, and the account is kept there of the amount each person earns."

"But I'm sure you will let me see it?" said Mary, looking at the young man with a smile. "Believe me, I do not ask without serious reason!"

The young man hesitated a few seconds and then put the books before her. "Here they are," He said. "Every name is put down here, and what each has earned."

"I want to see the pages for the month of December," said Mary. "By the way, do you often discharge your hands?"

"We never discharge anyone except for a serious reason," said Standring.

"Have you discharged anyone since—since—Mr. Stepaside went to Manchester?"

"No," said Standring. "You see, there was no reason. Business has gone on just the same as ever."

The girl looked eagerly down the list, and noted each name and the wages paid, while Standring watched her suspiciously. He wondered what this girl could mean by wanting to examine the wage-book.

"Do you keep on names after the people have ceased working for you?"

"Not after they've been discharged. There, you see, that man was discharged early in December. His name was crossed out. It doesn't appear the following week. On the other hand, if anyone is taken ill, we keep their names on, although they may not work. There, you see, Eliza Anne Bolshawe, she was taken ill at the beginning of December, but we kept on her name; the second week in December, no wages; the third week, no wages; the fourth week she came back again, and there's the amount she earned put opposite her name."

"I see," said Mary.

At that moment someone came into the office. "You're wanted in the mill, Enoch," said the visitor.

"Pray do not let me keep you, Mr. Standring," said Mary. "I'll do no harm while you're away." And she gave him a smile which removed any doubts which he might have had concerning leaving her alone.

Eagerly Mary went on examining the books, until presently her hands began suddenly to tremble. It seemed as though the idea which had been born in her mind were bearing fruit. Snatching a piece of paper from the office desk, she began to write rapidly.

When Enoch Standring returned, Mary was still busily examining the books, but the piece of paper on which she had made her notes was put out of sight.

"Have you seen what you want, Miss Bolitho?" said Standring.

"Yes, I think so," said Mary, "and I must congratulate you on the way these books are kept. The penmanship is perfect, and everything is clear, and easy to understand. I am sure Mr. Stepaside will be pleased with everything when he returns."

Standring looked at her sadly. He was one of those who believed that Paul Stepaside would never be acquitted, and he wondered what the future might bring forth.

When Mary returned to the house, she took the piece of paper from her pocket and looked at the notes she had made.

"I wonder, I wonder!" she said. "At any rate, I'll go and see her. Brunclough Lane, Brunclough Lane," she repeated to herself. "27 Brunclough Lane."

Heedless of the fact that she had had no food since the morning, she went out again, and presently found herself in a long narrow street where all the houses partook of the same character, each jutting on the causeway. At one of the corner houses she saw the words, "Brunclough Lane." Her heart was beating wildly, and she was excited beyond measure. The more she reflected, the more she became convinced of the importance of what she had done. She told no one of what she was thinking, or of the chain of reasoning which had led her to go to Paul's office that morning. But she had not acted thoughtlessly. Her father's account of the meeting with Archie Fearn, and what the man had said to him, had altogether changed her plans. Hitherto she could not help acting on the assumption that Paul's mother was guilty of this dread deed, consequently all her inquiries had been influenced by this belief. Up to now they had ended in nothing, even as had those of her father. Directly she had become convinced, however, that Paul's mother could have known nothing of the murder, and that on the very night when it took place her mind must naturally have been filled with other things, she saw that she must go on entirely different lines. As a consequence of this she had made her seemingly unaccountable visit to Paul's office, and had made what Standring regarded as an almost unprecedented request, to examine the wage-books. When she had gone, Standring went through those same books again. He was trying to discover Mary's motive in all this, and was wondering whether she suspected him of immoral practice in relation to the wages of the operatives. No suspicion of the truth, however, entered his mind, and although many curious eyes watched her as she came into Brunclough Lane that afternoon, no one dreamed of her reason for going there.

She was not long in finding the number she sought. A hard-featured woman, about forty-five years of age, came to the door in response to her knock.

"Does Emily Dodson live here?"

"Ay," said the woman, looking at her suspiciously. "And who might yo' be?"

"I'm Mr. Paul Stepaside's sister," said Mary.

The woman did not speak, but looked at her visitor suspiciously. Had Mary been watching her face just then, she would have noted that her eyes seemed to contract themselves, and that her square jaw became set and defiant.

"Are you Emily Dodson's mother?"

"Ay, I am."

"Is she in now?"

The woman looked up and down the street like one afraid, but answered quietly, "Ay, she is."

"I'm given to understand," said Mary, "that she was one of my—that is, Mr. Stepaside's workpeople?"

The woman was silent.

"Is she ill?"

"What's that to yo'?"

To a South country person the woman's attitude might have seemed rude, but a Lancashire man would have regarded her answers to Mary's questions as natural. As I have before stated, there is nothing obsequious in a Lancashire operative's behaviour. They are rough, oft-times to the point of rudeness, although no rudeness is meant. Possibly this woman might have regarded Mary's visit as a piece of impertinence. If a neighbour had come, that neighbour would have been received kindly, but Mary's appearance suggested that she did not belong to the order of people who lived in that street, and there were many who resented anything like what seemed interference.

"But your daughter is not very well, is she?"

"I never said owt o' th' so'ort."

"I hear she's not been at work for several weeks, and as Mr. Stepaside is unable to attend to business just now, I thought I might be of some service."

The woman laughed sourly. "Ay, you're Bolitho's lass, are you?" she said. "A pretty tangle things have got into; and what I want to know is if, as newspapers say, according to the confession your feyther made on the Bench, he married Paul's mother, where do yo' come in?"

Mary's face blanched, not only because of the woman's words, but because of the look she gave her. Still she held on her way.

"I'm naturally interested in the people Mr. Stepaside has employed," she said, "and as I am given to understand that she's been unable to work for several weeks, I thought I might be of service."

"I'm noan asking for charity," replied the woman.

"No, I know," replied Mary. "Still, if your daughter is out of employment she won't be earning anything, and I thought if I could be of any help to you——"

"I want no 'elp. I never asked anyone for charity yet, and never took none owther, and I'm noan going to begin now."

There was a defiant ring in the woman's voice, and Mary realised that here was one of those strong, determined characters who are not easily moved, and which are not rare among the Lancashire operatives.

"But if your daughter is ill," went on Mary, "she must be lonely. Has she had the doctor, may I ask?"

"Would you mind my telling you, miss, that that's noan o' your business. If our Emily has no mind to work, she'll noan work. Good afternoon." And the woman closed the door in her face.

As Mary turned to walk away she noticed that a number of people were watching her, as if wondering what she should be doing there. But no one spoke to her, and presently she found herself again near Paul's home, pondering deeply over what had taken place. She recalled every word that had been spoken, every question she had asked, and every answer the woman had given. She had said nothing that might arouse any suspicions, and her action was quite natural. She had simply gone to ask after one of Paul's employees, and therefore no one could attach undue importance to her visit, although they would be naturally curious to know why she went. During the time she had canvassed these people, when her father was candidate for Brunford, she had got to know many of their characteristics and to understand their methods of thinking, and this fact helped her to form her conclusions now, helped her to know how to act under the circumstances by which she was surrounded.

When she reached the house she asked for her father, and was informed that he was not in. He had left early that morning and had not yet returned. Hour after hour Mary sat alone, thinking, planning, wondering. She was afraid to attach too much importance to what had taken place that day, yet she felt sure that what she had seen and heard was not without meaning. But she felt her inexperience greatly. Oh, if her father would only come!

Presently a telegram was brought to her. Eagerly she opened it and read the contents. She saw that it was sent from Manchester, and it told her that her father was returning by the last train, and that there was no need for her to wait up for him.

Mary seized a time-table that lay on the table, and saw that the last train arrived at Brunford at eleven o'clock. There were four long, weary hours to wait, but she could not think of going to bed. Consequently, when Judge Bolitho returned that night he found his daughter awaiting him.

"Has something happened, Mary?" he said, as he noticed the look in her eyes.

"Have you found out anything?" she asked.

He shook his head sadly. "Nothing," he said. "I am afraid the trial has gone against Paul to-day too. I suppose it'll end to-morrow. Paul is to give his speech for his defence then. I wish I could be there; but I cannot; I dare not interfere in any way. It would prejudice his case too."

"Father," she said, "listen to me."

"Have you discovered anything?"

"I don't know yet," she said. "Listen."

CHAPTER XXXI

EZEKIEL ASHWORTH, HERBALIST

"Yes, Mary, what is it?"

"It may be I have been foolish, father, but for days I have been thinking about nothing except this. Being absolutely certain that Paul is innocent, I—well, you know what my suspicions were, father. But since you told me what that man Archie Fearn said, I was obliged to come to the conclusion that you were right."

The girl hesitated a second, and then went on excitedly: "I believe I've found out something."

The judge looked at his daughter questioningly, but there was no look of hope in his eyes. He could not believe that what he had failed to do she could accomplish. He had, as far as he knew, examined every possible source of evidence, and although he was still fain to believe as she believed, his reason still pointed to one dread conclusion.

"Until this morning," she went on, "I expect all my inquiries had been coloured by my belief, but when you destroyed that belief I was obliged to think on new lines. It's still a question of the knife, isn't it, father?"

"Yes," said the judge. "It's still a question of the knife. You see this is the fact, the salient fact, upon which the jury will have to fasten. Who could have become possessed of it? Paul was always careful about locking his office, and although it seems unlikely he should have done what it is believed he has done, what other explanation can be given?"

"Yes, I see," replied the girl. "But after you'd gone this morning I remembered lots of things which seemed to have no meaning before. We know now that Ned Wilson has not borne as good a character in the town as we thought."

The judge nodded.

"I heard all sorts of strange rumours," went on the girl, "to which I did not attach much importance. But when you convinced me that Paul's mother could not possibly have done it, I began to think those rumours might have some meaning. It may be the thing that I have found out has no meaning."

"What have you found out?" he asked sharply.

"This. First of all gossip associated Ned Wilson's name with a girl in this town by the name of Emily Dodson. People say she is very good-looking."

"Yes. And what then?"

"She worked for Paul," replied the girl. "She has worked in his factory for some months. Well, this morning a thought struck me, and I've been to Paul's factory and have examined his books. And I found out this: Emily Dodson was at work on the day preceding the murder, and she has never been near the place since. Of course, that of itself may mean nothing, but the coincidence struck me. It seemed a little strange that she has never been to work since that day. I went to the house where she lived and saw her mother. I asked to be allowed to see her, but the door was closed in my face. It seems that she's been ill ever since that time, and practically nothing is known of her."

The judge was silent for a considerable time. Evidently Mary's words had given him food for thought.

"It may mean nothing, father," she went on. "But don't you see? Her name has been associated with that of Wilson. Gossips say he has treated her badly. She is also spoken of as one of those dark, handsome, gipsy-looking girls, who is very passionate. Now then, think. Might she not have had an opportunity of going to Paul's office? Might she not by some means have got hold of this knife? Remember, she was one of his workpeople."

The judge shook his head. "You have very slender evidence for your assumption, Mary," he said sadly.

"Yes, but is it not strange that she never returned to work, and that she's been ill in bed ever since? From what I can gather, she's had no doctor, no one has been allowed to see her, and the night she ceased working was the night when Ned Wilson was murdered."

"Her illness is easily accounted for," said the judge. "If she were fond of Wilson, might not his death have so overwhelmed her that her health broke down? Still——"

"I have seen all these objections," urged Mary. "But don't you see: Paul didn't do it—he couldn't—his mother could not have done it, and someone did! I know that what I've been thinking seems to rest upon pure coincidence, but, father, I've thought, and thought, and thought, until I'm sure!"

"Tell me more about it," said the judge.

Mary related her experiences of the day, told in detail of her visit to the factory, described her examination of the books, and then related her conversation with Emily Dodson's mother.

"Of course, prima facie," he said presently, "you have reasons for your suspicions, but even if your suspicions are true, what can be done? Unless we can prove that she took the knife, unless someone saw her under suspicious circumstances, we are helpless. She might have done the deed and still Paul might have to be hanged."

"But, father!" cried the girl, and there was a wail of agony in her voice.

"Oh, do not fear, my child, the thing shall be tested. Everything shall be sifted to the very bottom. No stone shall be left unturned, I can assure you of that!"

Again the judge sat for a long time thinking. Presently he started to his feet. "Mary, you're a clever girl!" he said. "And it seems to me that if Paul's life is saved, we shall owe everything to you! But—but—— Go to bed, my child, my brain is weary now, as yours must be. Let us try and get a little sleep. To-morrow we can act."

The following morning, when the two met again, there was a new light in Judge Bolitho's eyes, a ring of determination in his voice. His step was firm, and his whole demeanour suggested an eagerness which for a long time had been absent.

"I ought to go to Manchester this morning," he said. "You see, my position is very peculiar. But I shall not go, no matter what happens!"

"You believe there's something in what I told you?" and her voice was almost hoarse with eagerness.

"There may be something in it," was his reply. "If—if——"

"What?" asked Mary.

"Paul's fate will be decided to-day," replied the judge, and his voice trembled. "Bakewell finished last night—of course, you have read the newspapers?—and this morning Paul will speak in his own defence. Perhaps that will take nearly the whole morning. Then Branscombe will sum up."

"And you believe——?" cried the girl.

"From what I can see of Branscombe's questions, I should say it is his opinion that Paul is guilty."

"But it will depend upon the jury!" cried the girl.

"Juries are influenced by the judge's summing-up."

"Oh, if—if——!" cried Mary.

"Yes, I see what is in your mind; but nothing can happen in time to influence the finding of the jury. You must not build upon that. But all hope is not lost yet, Mary. We will not give up until the last moment."

That morning Judge Bolitho's mode of action was not easily to be explained. He went to all sorts of strange and unthought-of places, and made many inquiries which, from the standpoint of the casual observer, were utterly irrelevant to the purpose he had in mind. Still, he kept on his way, asking his questions, keeping his own counsel. He visited Paul's factory, asked many questions of the employees, examined the books which had so interested Mary on the previous day, went to the scene of the murder. But no one could guess from his face as to what his conclusions might have been. That he was anxious and perturbed no one could have doubted; but whether his inquiries gave him any reason for hope it was impossible to tell. Strange as it may seem, he did not go to Brunclough Lane, but by means of many out-of-the-way inquiries he discovered the name of the doctor who attended the Dodsons in case of illness. He found out, too, that this doctor was not a fully qualified medical practitioner. Lancashire is a very Mecca for quack doctors. Long years ago, before legislation became stringent in this direction, many unqualified men earned large incomes among the factory hands. Herbalists of all sorts and men who pretended to cure diseases which baffled all the doctors were in great demand. In later years, although this practice had been considerably curtailed, a number of unqualified people managed to eke out a living. Judge Bolitho discovered that one of these—a certain Ezekiel Ashworth, who pretended to a knowledge of herbs, and who was also one who held high place among the spiritualists of the town—had attended in a medical capacity on various occasions at 27 Brunclough Lane. He also found out that this man had, during the last few weeks, sent a good deal of medicine to Mrs. Dodson's house, and, more than all this, that he had been called in on the previous evening some two hours after Mary had been in the street.

A little after noon Judge Bolitho found his way to Ezekiel Ashworth's house. He lived in a small, narrow street in one of a row of cottages which was let to him for four and sixpence a week. Ezekiel Ashworth had in his younger days been a weaver, but his mother, who was renowned as a very wise woman, had imparted her secrets to him before she died, and he had from that time followed his mother's calling. He also claimed that the spirits told him many things which doctors were unable to find out, and thus he imposed upon the credulity of ignorant people. Indeed, Ezekiel had quite an extensive practice, and many there were, even among those in affluent circumstances, who sought his aid.

When Judge Bolitho knocked at Ezekiel's door it was opened by the man himself. He was attired in a suit of shabby broadcloth; a greasy frock-coat hung below his knees, and his linen had evidently been a stranger to the laundry for some considerable time. His feet were encased in a pair of gaily coloured carpet slippers.

On seeing Judge Bolitho he assumed quite a professional air. "What can I do for you, my dear sir?" he said. "You don't look very well."

"No, I am far from well," replied the judge.

"Ay, I thought so. You're a stranger in these parts, I reckon?"

"I am not a Brunford man," replied the judge; "but I happened to be here, and, hearing about many of your wonderful cures, thought I would call and see you."

"Ay," replied Ezekiel. "I know a good deal more about doctorin' than half of these chaps with a lot of letters to their names; but the Government has made it very hard on us, and we can't do what we would."

"I see," replied the judge. "But I hear you have a fairly extensive practice, all the same."

"And no wonder," replied Ezekiel. "I cure cases which the doctors give up, and I don't charge a quarter as much as they do. Just think on 't—only sixpence for a bottle of medicine and a shilling a visit!"

"But what do you do in the case of a fatal illness?" asked the judge.

"That's where the hardness comes in," replied Ezekiel. "Then the poor people have to get a fully qualified man for the certificate. But you'll noan come about that, I reckon? You've come about yoursen?"

"No," said the judge. "I've come to inquire into your rights to practise medicine!"

"What do you mean? You're noan one of these inspectors, are you? I call this a sort of snake-in-the-grass proceeding! It's noan fair to come in like one ill, and then pounce upon a chap!"

Ezekiel gave another look at the judge, and then decided that he had better be civil. He realised that the man before him was not one who could be bullied.

"Look here, maaster," he said, "I never do owt agin law, and although, as you say, I've attended a lot of people, I've never been had before the beaks. Whenever a patient of mine gets near the danger line I always insist upon a fully qualified doctor being sent for. I hope you'll noan be hard on me."

"That depends," replied the judge. "The truth of it is, Mr. Ashworth, I've heard strange rumours about you, and, while I do not wish to take any harsh measure, I want a proper understanding. You often treat patients without ever having seen them, I'm told?"

"But never in a way as can do them any harm," replied Ezekiel. "When people come and describe symptoms, I send medicines to them; but my medicines are made up of yarbs, and canna hurt onybody."

"Are you sure of that?" asked the judge.

"Ay, I'm sure."

"Then what about the girl Emily Dodson, in Brunclough Lane, whom you've been treating for several weeks? You've repeatedly sent medicine there without having seen the patient."

Ezekiel looked uncomfortable. "Her mother told me she was just low like," he said, "and all she needed was some strengthening medicine."

"But no doctor should go on giving medicine without seeing the patient."

"Well, I'm noan going to give her any more," replied Ezekiel. "I were called in there last night 'cause Maria Ellen told me her lass was worse."

"Oh, you went to see the girl last night, did you? And what did you discover?"

"The lass were in a very bad way. But I can cure her all right."

From that time Judge Bolitho assumed a very severe air, and, when presently he left the house, Ezekiel looked exceedingly anxious.

"Of course, you'll understand," said the judge, on leaving him, "that it'll be to your interest that this interview remains a secret?"

"Ay, I see that," replied Ezekiel, with conviction.

"You'll understand also that Doctor White must be sent for at once?"

"Doctor White's no friend of mine," said Ezekiel. "He's always been hard on those of us who were not in the regular line of things."

"I insist on Dr. White," replied the judge.

"Weel, if you insist, it shall be done. But you'll not make it hard for me, will you?"

"I'll see what can be done," replied the judge. And then he walked away in a very thoughtful frame of mind.

A little later he was at Dr. White's surgery.

"I want half an hour's private talk with you," he said.

"Important?"

"Very important!"

When the judge had informed the doctor of the purport of his visit the latter looked very grave. "This cannot be decided off-hand," he said presently. And then, leaving the room, he spoke to his dispenser.

"Daniel," he said, "I have to leave the surgery at three o'clock, and it only wants half an hour to that time now. Are there many people waiting?"

"Ay, a good number."

"Take down their names and send them all away. Tell them I cannot see them until six to-night."

"Very well."

The doctor returned to Judge Bolitho again. "Now let's hear your story from end to end," he said.

When their interview closed, Dr. White looked, if possible, grimmer than usual, and when he visited his patients that afternoon more than one wondered what was the matter with him. He did not seem himself at all. Evidently his mind was much perturbed.

Judge Bolitho did not return to Paul's house until nearly five o'clock. As he came to the door, Mary met him with eager questions on her lips, but those questions were never asked. The ghastly look on his face made it impossible for her to speak.

"It's all over," he said hoarsely.

"All over? What's all over?"

"The trial. I've just telephoned to Manchester."

The girl stood looking at him with horror in her eyes.

"They've found him guilty," said the judge hoarsely. "He's condemned to be hanged!"

CHAPTER XXXII

IN THE CONDEMNED CELL

Paul Stepaside was alone in his condemned cell. He was no longer merely a prisoner waiting his trial for the most terrible deed a man can commit; he was condemned for that deed, and his whole circumstances were altered accordingly. No one could see him except in the presence of a warder, and he was under the most rigorous inspection. Care was taken that no means were offered him whereby he could take his own life. Thus, grim and horrible as had been his previous conditions, they were far worse now. The days of hope were gone, because the days of action were gone. Nothing he could say or do now promised a possibility of escape from the terrible doom which had been pronounced.

For many hours he had been thinking over his fate, and wondering what had become of those he loved. Vague rumours had reached him that his mother was not well, but he had no definite knowledge of anything concerning her. A short letter from Mary had also reached him. It was only a few words, but it had been his great source of solace and comfort. But that, too, had lost much of its meaning. It was written before his sentence had been pronounced. It had told him to hope, and it had expressed the undying faith and love of the writer. But even in this short letter he seemed to see a change. It was like the letter of a sister rather than the outpourings of the woman whom he had hoped to make his wife. Of course it was right and natural that this should be so. She had discovered their relationship, and believing herself to be his half-sister, she could no longer think of him as on that night of their meeting in the prison. Then they had met as lovers, and she had promised him that when he was free—as she felt sure he soon would be—to be his wife. But that was all over now. Even although he had been set at liberty, all his hopes would have been in vain. It seemed as though the facts of his life had mocked every hope, as though a grim destiny had fore-ordained that everything he longed for and believed in should mock him.

Since the last hour of the trial, when the judge had pronounced the dread words which made his name a by-word and a shame, and held him up for ever to the reproach of the world, he had been practically alone. He knew nothing of the heart-pangs of others; nothing of great determinations which alternated with wild despair; nothing of agonised prayers, of sleepless nights, and of vain endeavours to prove his innocence. He was a condemned man, alone in a condemned cell, waiting for the last hour. For the first few hours after the final words had been spoken he had a sort of gruesome pleasure in thinking of the future. He fancied that some few days would elapse, during which his case would be considered by the Home Secretary; and then this highly-placed official, having no reason for showing him any special mercy, would go through the formula necessary to his death. Then would come the erecting of the scaffold, the symbol of disgrace and shame. What the cross had been to the old Romans the scaffold was to the modern Englishman. After that, under the grey, murky sky, he would be led out, and the dread formula would be gone through. He would be asked whether he had anything to say before the fatal act was committed, after which the hangman would do his work.

Well, well, he would go through that as he had gone through all the rest. It was a ghastly tragedy, a grim mockery, but he would bear it like a stoic.

Presently, however, his feelings underwent a change. Memories of his early days came back to him—his life in the workhouse, his schooldays, when he took his place among the rest of the pauper boys, the learning of a trade, and his work in the mine. Always his life had been overhung with shadow, and yet he had enjoyed it. He had found pleasure in fighting with difficulty, in overcoming what seemed insuperable obstacles. He remembered the visits of the minister of Hanover Chapel, and of what he had said to him. Yes, the incipient atheism of his boyhood had become more pronounced as the years went by. His unbelief had become more settled, and yet, and yet——

He called to mind the hour he had first seen Mary. How wonderful she had been to him. She had brought something new, something nobler into his life. How, in spite of his anger, he had loved her! Ay, and he loved her still. He thought of his dream of going into Parliament, of fighting for the rights of the working people of the town in which he lived and for the class to which he had belonged. Yes, above and beyond his ambition to be a noted man he had a great consuming desire to do something for the betterment of the condition of the people whom he loved, a great passion to advance their rights. And, to a degree, he had done it. Brunford was the better, and not the worse, because he had lived. If it had been his fate to live, he would have continued to work for the toiling masses of the people. He thought of the dreams which had been born in his brain and heart, and which he hoped to translate into reality; of the Bills he had framed, and which he had meant one day to bring before Parliament, Bills which he had hoped would become Acts, and which would have a beneficent influence on the life of the nation.

But this was all over now. The end of all things had come. His doom had been pronounced. What a ghastly mockery life was—and men talked about God! He, an innocent man, was about to end his days in the most shameful way imaginable because he had been found guilty of a crime of which he knew nothing. But at least he had saved his mother. There was something in that. No shadow of shame or disgrace rested upon her name. Whether her days were many or few, nothing evil could be associated with the life of his mother. How it all flashed back to him. That night in the cell, when she had told him her story, told him that the man who had sat in judgment upon him was his father and her husband! Then came that great day in the court, when Judge Bolitho had made his confession. How still people were. The court was almost as silent as the cell in which he now lay. After all, his father could not have been a villain. It is true he had steeled his heart against him even after that confession. Had he been right? He remembered the visit of Judge Bolitho on the evening of his confession; how he had pleaded with him; how he had sought his love. It is true he would explain nothing of the mysteries which he, Paul, desired to learn. He was dumb when he had questioned him concerning the shame in which Mary's name lay. Nevertheless he had to confess in his heart that his father had tried to do his duty by him and his mother.

He recalled the words which he had spoken to the chaplain who had visited him one day. He had told this man that if his father would confess his evil deeds and seek to make atonement, he might believe in God, in Providence. It was a poor thing to say after all. God, if there was a God, must not be judged by poor little paltry standards. The God Who made all the worlds, who controlled the infinite universe, Who was behind all things, before all things, in all things, through all things—that God must have ways beyond his poor little comprehension. But was there such a Being? Or was everything the result of a blind fate, a great mysterious something which was unknown and unknowable, a force that had no feeling, no thought, no care for the creatures who crawled upon the face of this tiny world?

Then the great Future stared him in the face. Was this life the end and the end-all? Could it be that he, who could think and feel, who had such infinite hope and longings and yearnings, would die when he left the body? After all, was not Epictetus, the old Greek slave, right when he said that the body was only something which he carried around with him, and that his soul was something eternal which the world could never touch. If that were so, there must be a great spiritual realm into which he had never entered.

He thought of the opening words of the Old Testament: "In the beginning God——" It was one of the most majestic sentences in the literature of the world, sublime, almost infinite in its grandeur. Then he remembered the words of Jesus. Years had passed since he had given attention to these things, yet the memory of the words he had learnt as a boy was with him now. What a wonderful story it was! What a Life, too! The mind of Jesus had pierced the night like stars. He had torn to pieces the flimsy sophistries of the age in which He had lived, and looked into the very heart of things. What a great compassion He had for the poor, how tender He was to the sinning. Yes, He understood, He understood. And what a death He had died, too. He might have escaped death, but He had died believing that by dying He would enrich, glorify the life of the world. In a sense it was illogical, but there was a deeper logic which he eventually saw. After all, it was the death of Jesus that made Him live in the minds and hearts of untold millions during nineteen centuries. According to the standards of man, His death was unjust, and He knew it to be unjust, but He never flinched or faltered. "Father, forgive them; they know not what they do," He had said when the ignorant rabble had railed at Him. "Father, into Thy hands I commend My spirit," He had said, and then gave up the ghost. It was wonderful!

In that hour Paul Stepaside realised that he had been less than an infant crying for the light, and with no language but a cry. He had shut out the light by a poor little conceit of his own. He had dared to judge life by paltry little standards. He had dared to say what was and what was not—he! He knew less than nothing!

After all, that which had embittered him more than anything else, that which he said had robbed him of his faith—even in that he had been proved to be wrong. It was a great thing his father had done. Of course he had sinned, of course his life had been unworthy. His treatment of his mother was the act of a dastardly coward—the base betrayal, the long absence, the marrying another woman—oh! it was all poor and mean and contemptible! Nothing but a coward, ay, a villain, could have done it. And yet there was something noble in his atonement. Of course sin must be followed by suffering and by hell. He saw that plain enough. He saw, too, that not only the sinner suffered, but others suffered. Yet who was he to judge? His father—a proud man, proud of his family name, proud of the position he had obtained, one of the highest in the realm of law—had, in face of a crowd hungry for sensation, eager to fasten upon any garbage of gossip which might come in its way, confessed the truth, even although that truth had made his name the subject of gossip for millions of tongues. Yes; there was something noble in it, and Paul felt his heart soften as he thought and remembered. Whatever else it had done, it had made his own fate easier to bear.

He thought of the look on Judge Bolitho's face as he came to his cell on the day of the confession, remembered the pleading tones: "Paul, my son, I want your forgiveness, your love."

Perhaps it was because his heart was so weighed down with grief, and his life was unutterably lonely, that he cried out like one whose life was filled with a great yearning: "Father, father!"

He heard a sound at the door of the cell. The warder entered, followed by the form of a woman. His heart gave a great bound.

"Mary!" he cried.

He had not expected this. It had become a sort of settled conviction in his mind that he would have to die alone and uncomforted. He had a vague idea that people would be allowed to see him, but no definite hopes had ever come into his mind. Perhaps he had wondered why he had been left so long alone, but he had never doubted Mary's love.

Regardless of the fact that the warder stood there, the man who, as it seemed to him, was coarse and almost brutal, watching his every action, listening to his every word, he threw open his arms: "Mary, my love!"

A minute later she was sobbing out her grief on his shoulder.

"I wanted to come before, Paul," she said; "but father did not think it best."

"No, no; I understand. Oh, Mary, it's heaven to me to see you, to hear you speak, to hold you like this; but I almost wish you had not come. Why should you suffer?"

"I have come, Paul, because I could not help it, and because—— Oh, I want to tell you something. Must this man stay?"

"Can you not go and leave us alone?" said Paul to the man.

The warder shook his head. "Against rules!"

"But surely you need not listen to what—to what—my—that is, this young lady has to say to me."

The man did not speak. Perhaps he had some glimmering of understanding, perhaps he realised the position better than they thought.

"Whisper it, Mary," said Paul, still holding her to his heart.

"Paul, you are innocent."

"Yes," he said. "I am innocent. I fought for my life as hard as I could; but law is not justice, Mary. It's a huge legal machine."

"And Paul," she whispered, "you have believed all along that someone else was guilty. You have believed it was your mother."

She felt him shudder as she spoke the words.

"I believed it, too. It came to me one day that you were trying to shield her, and that was why you have allowed yourself to be here. You could have cleared yourself else, couldn't you?"

She knew by the deep sigh that escaped him how her words moved him.

"On the day when my father made that confession," she went on, "I found out where your mother was, and went to see her. I had made up my mind to obtain a confession of guilt from her. Oh, Paul, it's terribly hard to tell you this, and I know that you'll hardly be able to forgive me; but it was all for you! You believe that, don't you?"

"Go on, Mary. Tell me what it is."

"I went back to Brunford with her. You see she knew who I was by this time, and I think she liked me. She said she was ill and was afraid to stay in Manchester any longer, and she asked me to go back to Brunford with her."

"Yes, and you did, Mary."

"Yes, I did. And then I begged her to tell me the truth. I made her see who I suspected."

"Yes, and then——" he whispered.

"I don't know what it was, whether it was the shock of my words, or whether it was because she could no longer stand the strain she had been suffering, but her senses forsook her, and—oh, Paul! forgive me—but she's been ill ever since. She's had no knowledge of anything that's been going on."

He was silent a moment, then he said: "It's best so, Mary. If she does not know she cannot suffer, and no shame can attach to her name now."

"No, Paul; but I haven't told you all yet. It wasn't she who did it! She was as ignorant of the crime as I was!"

"How? Tell me!" he almost gasped.

She related the story of what took place between her father and the man Archie Fearn, while he, with hoarse whispers, besieged her with questions.

"Thank God!" he said at length. It seemed as though a great burden had gone from his life, and as though the only way in which he could express his feelings was by thanking the Being in Whom he had said he had no belief.

"Paul, could you have saved yourself if you had known this?"

"I don't know," he replied. "I might—that is—no, I don't know. I went out that night to seek her, Mary. When I had told her of my quarrel with Wilson, you remember, on the night of the murder, she acted as though she were mad. She promised me I should be revenged, that I should have justice. She said things which, when I began to think about them afterwards, made me afraid. I thought she had gone to bed, and I sat in my study for hours, alone, thinking and wondering. Then, when I went to her room to bid her good night, I found she was gone, and I went out to seek her. Undoubtedly it was a senseless thing to do, because I had no knowledge of the direction in which she had gone. She had, however, uttered one sentence which guided me: 'I am going to Howden Clough,' she said. 'It's near there I shall see him.'"

For a long time they spoke in whispers, the warder standing as far away from them as possible, and seemingly taking no notice.

"It's just as well, Mary," he said. "Perhaps I couldn't have saved myself if I'd known; and it might be—yes, it might be that if I had said what was in my heart—— No, it's just as well! It's just as well!"

"Time's up!" said the warder.

"Let me stay a little longer," pleaded Mary.

"Against rules!" was the reply. "Time's up!"

"Paul, lean down your head again."

She kissed him passionately, and then whispered in his ear: "All hope's not gone even yet, Paul."

"I want no King's Pardon," said Paul almost bitterly. "I wouldn't have it!"

"It's not that. I have been trying and trying, and my father has been trying——"

"You mean——"

"I mean that he's with us at Brunford, Paul. He's at your house. He has been working night and day, and, and——"

The warder opened the door. "This way, please, Miss!"

"Don't give up, Paul!" she cried. "And remember this, I'm working and praying for you, and father is working and praying for you. It may—oh! it may end in nothing; and I dare not say more, but Paul, Paul——"

Again Paul was alone. Mary's kisses were still warm upon his lips. He felt her breath upon his face. Her presence pervaded the room even although she was gone—Mary, whom he loved like his own life! It was not as though his sister had been to see him at all. It was still Mary, the woman he loved as his wife!

Day followed day, and no further news reached him. Eagerly he had listened to every echoing footstep in the corridor. Feverishly he had watched the face of the warder who had brought him food. Like one who had hoped against hope, he had at stated times scanned the faces of other prisoners when he had been allowed to go for exercise into the prison yard. But he heard nothing, saw nothing which could give him hope.

One night the chaplain entered his cell, and Paul saw, from the look on the man's face, of what he was thinking.

"It's to be to-morrow, isn't it?" he said.

The chaplain nodded and was silent.

"What o'clock is it now?"

"Half-past three."

"And what time to-morrow?"

"Early. I don't know the exact hour."

"Is it known outside—I mean, does the world know?"

"I don't know; I expect so."

"Ah," said Paul. "She will come to-night; so will he. But mother cannot come—no, of course she cannot come; but I am glad she knows nothing."

"My brother," said the chaplain, "may I not speak to you about higher things? Remember that in a few hours——"

"Stop!" said Paul. "It's good of you to come, and I'm afraid that in the past I've sometimes spoken rudely to you. I have regarded you as one who has done his duty, just as the warders have done theirs; and just as they are paid to lock the door upon me and bring me food at stated intervals, so you've been paid to utter your shibboleths and to say your prayers. But perhaps you've meant all right. Still, nothing that you can say would help me. I have no confession to make to you, not a word, except that I adhere to what I said in the courts: I am absolutely innocent of this murder. There's no crime on my soul!"

"But are you ready to meet your God?" said the chaplain.

"Pardon me," said Paul, and his voice quivered with emotion, "but that's a subject too sacred to talk about. Hark! what's that?"

There was a sound of hammering outside.

"Does it mean—that?"

Again the chaplain nodded. "Think, my brother——"

"No, no," said Paul. "If I am soon to meet God face to face, as you say, well then—no, I'm neither ashamed nor afraid; that is, as you're regarding it. I am ashamed—but, there, you could not understand. Please leave me, will you?"

Again there was a dull sound of the impact of the head of a hammer upon the head of a nail outside.

Silence reigned over Brunford, and for a wonder the night was clear. Overhead unnumbered stars shone brightly. The wind came from the sea, and more than one declared that they felt the salt upon their lips. In spite of this, however, gloom rested upon the town. It had gone forth, that, on the following morning Paul Stepaside was to be hanged, and hundreds, as they trod the granite pavements of the streets, seemed to be trying to walk noiselessly. At almost every corner groups of men were to be seen evidently discussing the news they had heard.

"He was a rare fine lad, after all, ay, he wur. I canna think, in spite of everything, as 'ow he did it. He wur noan that sort."

"Ay, but the judge and jury, after hearing all th' evidence, and after hearing one of the grandest speeches ever made in Manchester, found him guilty. Ay, and it wur a grand speech, too; I heerd every word on it, and I shall never forgeet it to my dying day. When he finished I said, 'He's saved hissen!' I thowt as no judge and jury in the warld would ever condemn a man after that. It seemed to me as though he had knocked Bakewell's legs from right under him, and I nearly shouted out loud."

"Ah, but he could not get over th' judge; nay, the judge seemed to have made up his mind, and his summing up were just terrible. Mark you, I've heard a lot of complaints about it. You know what Paul said after he were condemned? He said as 'ow the judge's summing up might have been another speech by the counsel for the prosecution; and I watched the judge's face when he said it, and I tell you he went as white as a sheet. But theer, 'tis done, and tomorrow morning he'll have to stand afore the Judgment Seat of God!"

"'Twould be terrible, wouldn't it, if he didn't do it after all? S'posing it should turn out that someone else did it!"

"But how could it be, man? 'Twere that knife. Who could ha' got it? Paul never allowed onybody to get into the office. The door was locked, the window was locked. No, no! Ay, but it's terrible!"

"Haaf-past seven, as I've heerd, it's going to take place," said another.

"Nay, haaf-past eight."

"I wonder if he's made his peace with God?"

"Perhaps; we shall never know. Paul was never a chap to say much about that kind of thing."

"I've just come from a prayer-meeting at Hanover Chapel. Never was there such a prayer-meeting before. Paul never went to chapel, but, but there——"

"Well, God Almighty knows if he's innocent," said another.

"Yes," was the reply. "And it's a good thing, too, that his mother'll know nothing about it. I've heerd as 'ow Dr. White says that even if she lives her mind'll never come back to her again."

"I suppose Judge Bolitho's still in th' town?"

"Ay; I hear he's been writing to th' Home Secretary. I know he's been to London more nor once."

"The nurse up at Paul's house say as 'ow he hasn't slept for three nights, and he's acted fair and strange, too. I wonder if there's onything in his mind?"

"I never thowt," said another, "as 'ow they would have ever hanged him when it coom to be known that Paul's feyther was a judge. I wonder 'ow it'll turn out."

And so they gossiped. Even in the public-houses a kind of solemn awe was present. No jokes were passed, even among those who were drunken. It seemed as though the Angel of Death were hovering over the town in which Paul had lived for so many years.

When midnight came, a messenger went from Brunclough Lane to Dr. Wilson's house. It was a neighbour of Mrs. Dodson's, who had been aroused from his sleep, and who had been requested to fetch the doctor, as her daughter was worse.

There was a communication by means of a tube between the front door and the doctor's bedroom.

"Hallo, Dr. White!"

"Yes, who are you?"

"I'm Amos Gregson. I come fro' Mrs. Dodson. She says as 'ow Emily's worse, and you must come at once."

"Very well; I'll be on in a few minutes."

The doctor might not have retired at all, for he was out in the street fully dressed a very few seconds after the man had left. With long, rapid strides he made his way to Paul's house, which stood in the near distance, and from one of the windows of which a light was burning. He knocked at the door, which was opened by Judge Bolitho.

"I told you to wait," he said. "I knew the crisis would come to-night."

"Has she sent for you?" asked the judge hoarsely.

"Yes, the man left my door not ten minutes ago. You have Crashawe with you?"

"Yes; he's been with me all the evening, and he's now lying on the sofa asleep."

"Come, then."

A few seconds later three men left the house and made their way rapidly towards Brunclough Lane. Presently they stopped at the door of number twenty-seven and knocked. It was immediately opened by a neighbour, who looked suspiciously at Dr. White's two companions.

"Mrs. Dodson is up in th' room," she said.

"And Emily?" said the doctor.

"She says she mun see you."

"Remain here," said Dr. White to the others, and went straight upstairs. Evidently he had been there many times, and knew his way perfectly.

He entered a room which was lit by a cheap, common lamp, and which threw a sickly light upon the bed. A girl lay there who must have been extremely beautiful when in health; even although the hand of death was upon her now, she gave evidence of that beauty. Her eyes were coal-black, her face was a perfect oval, and every feature was striking and handsome. Her hair was raven-black and lay in great waving tresses upon the pillow.

When the doctor entered, she looked towards him eagerly.

"Mother," she said, "go out!" for her mother sat by the bedside.

"Why mun I go, Emily?"

"I want to tell th' doctor something," she said.

"And why may I not hear it? I suppose I can guess, can't I?"

The woman spoke angrily even then.

"Don't thee be white-livered, Emily, or say owt for which you'll be sorry afterwards."

The doctor noted the look on the girl's face. Even then there was something strong and defiant about her. She had a Juno-like appearance which would have attracted notice anywhere, and her firm, square chin denoted a nature which could withstand almost any opposition.

"Go, mother," she said; and the woman sullenly left the room.

"Doctor," said the girl, and although the death dews were even then upon her forehead and she spoke between sobbing gasps of breath, there was a kind of defiance in her tone. "Doctor, you've been trying for days to wheedle summat out of me—you know you have."

The doctor did not speak.

"While I thought I was going to live," went on the girl, "I would say nowt. Nay, if the king on his throne and all the judges and juries in the land were to try and drag from me what I'm going to say I wouldn't have said it. Ay, but I'm afear'd to die, doctor! Am I going to die?"

"Yes, you're going to die, Emily."

"How long can I live?"

"Perhaps a few hours, perhaps not so long."

For some seconds the girl lay silently. Even yet she seemed to be fighting some great battle.

"Mrs. Cronkshaw was up here a little while ago, and she said as 'ow Paul Stepaside was to be hanged to-morrow morning. Is that true?"

"Yes, that is what I've heard," said the doctor.

"Ay; you've tried to get out of me if I know summat about it," said the girl. "Ay; but you've tried hard, doctor!" and there was almost a triumphant tone in her voice. "But have I said a word? Nay, not a word! While I thought I should live I wouldn't speak for onybody. And you've believed I knowed summat about it."

"And I was right," said the doctor, "wasn't I?"

"You're sure, now?" and the girl's tone was almost angry. "You're sure I can't live?"

"You can live but a few hours, Emily."

"And can onybody do owt to me if I tell you summat now?"

"No; no one can do anything."

"Weel, then, look 'ere—I killed Ned Wilson!"

Although Dr. White expected this, the words made him shudder.

"I've ne'er said a word to onybody," went on the girl. "I believe my mother guessed, but she's noan one to talk, is mother. Besides, I've been very poorly. But I've ne'er said a word to onybody, although I could see by yar questions that you thought I knowed summat about it. I'm going to tell you everything now. I don't want Mr. Paul Stepaside to die when it can do no good. If I were going to live, I'd ha' let him die, no matter what happened; but now—— It wur like this 'ere——"

"Wait," said the doctor. "I want someone to come and listen to what you have to say."

"Nay, nay; I'll tell no one but you."

"But you must!" said the doctor. "If you don't, your confession will be of no use. There must be witnesses."

"You mean that I couldn't save him from hanging if I only told it to you?"

"Yes, I mean that," replied the doctor.

"Who do you want to come up?" said the girl presently. "Nay, I don't care who comes now. I did it, and there'll soon be an end to it. Let 'em come, whoever they may be!"

In a few seconds Judge Bolitho and the other man came into the room. The doctor whispered to the judge.

"There must be someone else," said the judge. "I am afraid my evidence would be valueless, although I want to be here. You see, I'm Paul's father."

"Wait a minute," said the doctor, and he ran quickly downstairs. "Mrs. Cronkshaw," he said. "Come into the bedroom at once!"

The girl who lay upon the bed looked from one face to another, as if wondering what was happening.

"Give me some strengthening stuff," she said, "or I shall noan be able to speak."

While the doctor poured some liquid into a glass, the judge passed round to the other side of the bed, while the lawyer—Crashawe by name—sat under the light with writing materials to hand. The woman who went by the name of Cronkshaw eagerly watched the proceedings, and looked like one vastly curious.

"It wur like this 'ere," said the dying girl. "Ned Wilson courted me, and he promised me that he'd marry me. He did it on the quiet, nobody knew, and I, like a fool, trusted him. Ay, but I wur fond on him. You see, well, I knowed I wur a good-looking lass, but I wur always a bit rough, and it seemed wonderful to me that a great gentleman like he should have cared owt for me. And when we had met two or three times, and he told me that he loved me, I wur ready to worship the very ground he walked on! As I told you, he promised to marry me; ay, and it were his duty to do so, too, for I wur i' trouble. Then he tried to get me out of Brunford, but I wouldn't go. I tried to make him stand by his word. As you know, people said as 'ow he wur going to marry Miss Bolitho, but I wouldn't believe that. Ned had promised me fair. He swore to me by the God above us that he'd marry me. Then I saw in the Brunford paper it wur arranged that he should marry Miss Bolitho. For a day or two I think I wur mad, and he kept out o' the way o' me. Then I axed him about it, and he laughed at me. He said he wur only joking when he promised to marry me, and that a lass like I couldn't expect him to throw away his life by marrying a mill girl. He offered me brass to leave the town—a good deal on it, too—but I wur noan going to be treated like that. I said, 'No.' Give me some more stuff, doctor."

The doctor raised the girl and placed another pillow under her head, while she eagerly drank what remained in the glass. The room was in intense silence, save for the scratch of the lawyer's pen, who was taking down what the girl was saying, word by word.

"I 'eerd as 'ow Paul Stepaside had come back from London," she went on, "and I thought to myself, 'He'd help me. I'll tell him all about it. He's very clever, and he doesn't like Ned Wilson,' for by this time a fair hate got hold of me, and I thought to myself, 'I'll see him on the quiet.' I saw him go to his office that morning. I wur just walking across the mill yard; but as he wur talking with someone I just waited a bit. I didn't want no one to see me. Presently I see his mother come, I don't think onybody else saw her, because she came in by a side way, and as you know, Paul's office is shut off from the mill. So I waited around, and after a bit I saw his mother go out, and I said to myself, 'Now's my time.' So I went up a little passage, and no one could see me; but just as I wur coming up close to the door he came out quickly. I think he wanted to speak to his mother about something. Anyhow, he left th' office door open, and I said to myself, 'I'll go in there now, and wait till he comes back.' Well, I did; and I waited perhaps two minutes, but he didn't come. And then I seed the knife on th' table, and I got 'andlin' it, and all sorts of black thoughts came into my mind. And I said to myself, 'I'll say nowt to Mr. Stepaside at all.' I can't explain why it was, but I took 'old o' th' knife and come away. When I got home for dinner, I just wrote a letter to Ned Wilson, and I told him I must see him that night late. It wur something very particular. And I told him that, as it was the last time I should ask him to do onything for me, he mustn't refuse."

"Well," said the doctor. "What then?"

"Weel, I wur at the place I told him about, and he coom'd. It wur very late. You see I made the hour late, 'cause I know'd if it wur early, and he wur likely to be seen with me, he wouldn't come. So I made it late, and I told him, too, that if he didn't come I'm make everything known. I never said owt to anybody, but I kept t' knife with me. Give me some more stuff, doctor; I feel as though my head is all swimming!"

The doctor did as the girl desired, and made her pillow more comfortable.

"Ay, that's better," she said. "Weel, we met, and I begged him again, begged him as I thought I should never beg onybody to do anything—for I am a proud lass—to marry me. But he wouldn't. He said he wur going to marry Miss Bolitho, if only out of spite to Paul Stepaside. So I said to him, 'What has Paul Stepaside to do with it?' And he laughed. So then I axed him what I wur to do, and he told me that I might go to Manchester and get my living as best I could. And after that hell got hold of me, but I kept quiet. And I said, 'Good-night, Ned,' and he said, 'Good-night, Emily. Be a sensible lass.' And then he turned round to go back home, and then I up with the knife and stabbed him in the back. I thought my heart was going to leap into my mouth when I saw him fall on his face without a word and without a sound, and I never stayed a minute, but I run all the way home."

The scratch of the lawyer's pen continued some seconds after the girl had ceased speaking.

"That's all," she said. "I'm glad I've told you. A've been i' 'ell for mony a week, and, and—but there, it's all over now!"

"Just a minute," said the lawyer. "Let me read through what you have said."

"I can noan bear it; my head's swimmin' again!"

Dr. White administered another dose of powerful stimulant, and the girl breathed more easily.

"You can bear it now, Emily," he said kindly. "And you've been a brave lass."

"I know I ought not to have killed him," said the girl, "but he treated me bad, and he said things to me which no man ought ever to say to ony lass. But theer——"

The lawyer came close to the bed and read the girl's confession aloud.

"Ay, that's right," she said when he had finished. "It's all true, every word, so help me God!"

"Will you sign your name here?" said the lawyer.

They propped her up in bed, and a pen was placed in her hand. Judge Bolitho was afraid for the moment that she would never have strength enough to perform the task of writing her name; but the girl, almost by a superhuman effort, conquered her weakness. She seized the pen and wrote her name.

"Thank you," he said. "That will do."

The girl lay back on her pillow, panting for her very life. A minute later the document was witnessed by the others in the room.

Two hours later Emily Dodson was dead.

CHAPTER XXXIII

THE HOME-COMING

The warder came into Paul's cell bearing his breakfast.

"There," he said. "I've got something good for you this morning. How did you sleep?"

"Scarcely at all," replied Paul quietly. "You can take away this; I shall not eat it."

"Eat it, man; it is the best breakfast you've had for many a day, and it'll help you to go through with it."

"No," replied Paul quietly; "I'll go through it without that."

There was a sad, wistful look in his eye. He knew that the dread hour had nearly come, and that he must bid good-bye to everything. During the previous evening he had been in a state of great excitement. He had listened eagerly for the coming of Mary and his father, but they never came. In a numb sort of way he wondered why. He would like to have bidden them good-bye. He longed to hold Mary in his arms once more, and longed, too, to tell his father that he forgave him. For he had to confess to himself at last that he had done this. With death knocking at the gates of life, it seemed to him he could do no other. His father had sinned, but he had done his best to atone. Of course, all was vain, and the tangled skein of life had not been straightened out. He felt that somehow life with him had begun wrong, and it had continued wrong to the end. Still, there was a quiet resignation in his heart which almost surprised him. At that moment he could have said with Tennyson, "And yet we trust that somehow good will be the final goal of ill." As for the future—well, he would soon solve its mystery. He did not want to die; rather, he longed to live—he had so much to live for in spite of everything. Of course, Mary could never be his wife, but he could love her and guard her and cherish her all the same. As for the rest——

He felt a kind of curiosity as to what the future would bring forth. He looked at his hands, so strong, nervous, vigorous, and thought that in a few hours they would be inert, lifeless. That something which men call "life" would be gone. Where would he be? For the first time in his life he felt almost certain that the essential "he" would continue to be. Where, and under what circumstances, he wondered? Well, he should know soon.

A little later he was out under a dark, gloomy sky. He saw a great black cloud hanging in the heavens. Here and there was a patch of blue where the stars peeped out. It was bitterly cold, and he felt himself shivering. Others were there, too; strange, shadowy looking figures they appeared to be, but he took very little note of them. Only one man was perfectly clear to him; that was the chaplain, who wore a gown and carried a black book in his hand. It was his duty to read the Burial Service. He heard a bell tolling, but it did not affect him as he thought it would. Of course, it was the very refinement of torture, and ought not to be allowed. No man, whatever he had done, should be made to suffer in this way. But he did not care much. He was not afraid. In the dim light he saw that a scaffold had been erected—a gaunt, ghastly thing, the very symbol of despair and shame and death. He wondered what took place next. He supposed there would be certain formulae to go through. The parson would utter a homily as well as read the miserable Burial Service.

"What's going to happen next?" he said to the warder; and he spoke rather as a spectator than as the one who was the chief figure in this terrible scene.

But before the man had time to reply there was a strange confusion. Something had happened. Excited voices were heard. The governor of the gaol said something, the purport of which did not reach Paul, but still something which seemed to change the atmosphere and made the grey dawn bright with the light of day. Another moment, and his heart thrilled. He felt soft arms around his neck, a warm face close to his, while on his lips were burning kisses.

"Paul! Paul!"

"Mary!"

He wondered what it all meant, for even yet the truth had not dawned in his mind.

"You should not have come, Mary," he said. "You see I can bear it all right."

"Paul, don't you understand?" And she laughed and sobbed at the same time. "You are not going to die. You are saved!"

"Saved?"

"Yes. She has confessed, Paul."

"No, no!" And there was agony in his voice. "No, no! Better I should die than that she should!"

"No; but, Paul, it was another—a woman named Emily Dodson. You were right, you see, in your defence. He had deceived her, wronged her, and she killed him. She confessed it last night. It's all written down and signed. Don't you understand, my love?"

"Then, then——?"

"I congratulate you, Mr. Stepaside!" It was the governor of the gaol who spoke. "Thank God, the news has come in time! Yes, my lord, of course you can speak to him."

"Paul, my son." And his heart thrilled at the sound of his father's voice. "Thank God! Thank God! Will you shake hands and forgive me?"

It seemed to Paul at that moment as though the foundations of his life were broken up.

"Oh, God, I thank Thee!" he cried, "Oh, Mary, Mary! My love!" And again he strained the young girl to his heart.

For many days Paul Stepaside's mother lay sleeping calmly in the room where sickness had confined her. Her face was tranquil, the lines which had been so deep a few weeks before had passed away. She had been unconscious ever since the day on which Mary had made known to her the terrible suspicion which filled her mind. Sometimes there had come to her minutes when the past became partially real, but those minutes were only as dream phantoms. She knew nothing of what had taken place, did not seem to realise that Mary Bolitho had been in the house with her, or that the man to whom she had given her heart long years before slept beneath the same roof. She knew nothing either of the agony through which they had passed or of their feverish endeavours to save her son. She suffered no pain. She simply lay there as though nothing mattered and as though the windows of her mind had been closed.

The nurse sat by her bedside watching her. The doctor had been that morning, and had remarked that he saw no change either one way or the other.

"I have seldom seen anything like it, nurse!" he had said. "Physically, she seems to be improving. Her pulse is quite satisfactory; she has no temperature; and her strength is well maintained. But I do not understand this long condition of coma. I wonder how it will end!"

The nurse, as she sat by the patient's bedside, was thinking of what the doctor had said, and was curiously watching her face.

The woman's eyes opened, and the nurse thought she saw the light of reason in them. She looked curiously around the room.

"Who are you?" she said.

"I'm a nurse from the hospital, Mrs. Stepaside. You haven't been very well."

"Ay, I remember being poorly. Where's Paul?"

"He's not come back yet," said the nurse.

"What do you mean? Ay, but he's near! Don't you hear them shouting?"

In spite of the fact that she still believed her patient to be unconscious, she listened, and thought she heard distant shouting.

"I know, I know! It's Paul coming home! He's cleared himself. Do you see? He's proved himself innocent! I knew he would! My own clever boy! There! There!"

Again the nurse listened, and this time she knew that something was taking place. It seemed to her like a shout of great multitudes, the roar of a mighty sea of voices, and it was coming nearer and nearer the house.

"Hurrah! Hurrah!"

"God bless ye!"

"He's saved!"

"He's innocent!"

"The truth has come out!"

She could only faintly distinguish the words, but this was what she thought she heard. It was like the roar of a great storm, the shout of a mighty multitude.

Still it came nearer and nearer, and the volume of sound ever increased.

The woman in her bed laughed. "Don't you see?" she said. "I left Manchester only yesterday, and that lassie came with me. Where is she noo? She'll be gone to meet Paul. Just think of it! I didn't think he could clear himself so soon, but she thought—ah, never mind what she thought!"

Still the roar of voices continued, ever increasing in volume and jubilancy.

"Don't you see?" went on Paul's mother. "The crowd knew he would come, and they met him at Brunford station, and they're bringing him home as he ought to be brought home. But I must not be here, in bed, I must get up!"

"No, no," said the nurse. "You're not well enough for that!"

"Not well enough! I'm all right. My Paul must not find me like a sick woman when he comes. He must find me up and dressed, ready to meet him. Quick, quick!"

She got out of bed of her own accord. "There," she said. "You say I'm not strong enough! They are at the door, do you hear? Hark how they're shouting! Ay, my own Paul, the light's come to him at last!"

She ceased speaking. Her mind seemed to be gathering up the events of the past weeks. She remembered the visit which Judge Bolitho had made to her in Dixon Street—called to mind, too, the confession he had made, and which Mary had read to her.

"And there is no stain upon his name now. No one can twit him now!" she continued, jubilantly. "There they are at the door! Now then, bring me that dressing-gown. Oh, if I'd only woke up sooner, I would have put on that new dress which Paul brought me, the one he likes so much. He said it made me look like a lassie."

The front door opened, and both of them heard the confusion of tongues beneath. Then there was a heavy tread upon the stairs. The door of her bedroom opened, and Paul entered.

He had expected to see her lying on a bed of sickness, pale and emaciated, instead of which she stood erect.

"Mother!" he said, and folded her in his arms.

"Ay, my laddie!" she cried. "You've beaten them all, then?"

He did not know what was in her mind, but he thought it best to humour her. "Yes, mother, I've beaten them all."

"I knew you would. When I left Manchester yesterday I knew you'd beat them. Why, to think of you, my Paul, doing such a thing! And that crowd I heard shouting, Paul? They came to meet you at the station, didn't they?"

"I believe hundreds of them came from Manchester," was the reply. "Then, of course, there were many at the station, too."

"That's well, my son!"

"Mother, what is it?" cried Paul, noting the change that passed over her face.

"I'm not so well, my laddie, and I'm not so strong as I thought I was. But it's all right. I think I'll lie down again."

He lifted her in his arms and placed her back in the bed, and in a few seconds she was asleep.

The crowds departed after a while, but there was little work done in Brunford that day. Never was such an excitement known before, never such joy manifested. Directly the news had become known that the real murderer had confessed, the news flashed over many wires and the Press of the whole country was flooded with the wonderful story. Throughout Lancashire it passed, from town to town, from mill to mill, from cottage to cottage, like wild-fire. People who had been certain of Paul's guilt the day before had known all along that he was innocent, and pretended to rejoice accordingly. No sooner did the news reach Brunford than all the mills in the town ceased running. The streets were filled with excited multitudes, talking over what had taken place. Paul Stepaside, for whom the scaffold had been erected and the cord made ready, had been proved innocent at the last moment, and stood before the world a free man! It would be impossible for me to describe in detail the rejoicings of the people or the demonstrations that were made. Even to this day the people in Brunford talk about it as a red-letter day in the history of the town, as a time when it was moved beyond all thought or imagination.

Meanwhile, Paul sat with Mary in his own house. The past weeks seemed like a hideous nightmare to him now. But he had awakened from his sleep, the dark clouds had rolled away. He was home again! The crime of which he had been accused was as nothing. His innocence had been proclaimed to the world. His name was without a stain. But he felt strangely restrained. It seemed as though a weight were put upon his lips, and while he grudged every moment that Mary was out of his sight, he almost feared to be alone with her.

"Paul," she said to him late that afternoon, "your mother does not seem to suffer at all because of the excitement this morning!"

"No," he said quietly. "It's very wonderful! When I was with her just now she was quite cheerful and happy. Even yet she does not know all the truth. Of course, she'll have to know it some day, but we will keep it from her as long as we can. But I do not quite understand the look in her eyes, all the same! She seemed as though she were expecting some one."

"I think I know whom she expects."

"You mean your father?" replied Paul. Even yet he was unable to speak of Judge Bolitho as his own father.

"Yes, I believe she is wondering why he has not come."

"I think I rather wonder, too," said Paul. "You see, he left us directly after I was—after—after the truth was made known, and I've heard nothing from him since. Have you, Mary?"

"No," said the girl. "I've heard nothing. I think he went to London. You see, as far as you're concerned, there are heaps of formalities to be complied with!"

"Yes, yes, I know!" said Paul almost hastily. It seemed as though he wanted to drive the whole terrible thing from his mind.

"Mary," said Paul at length, "have you ever spoken with your father about the past?"

"No," she replied, "never. I was afraid; I don't know why. Once or twice he seemed to be trying to broach the subject, but there was such an awful look in his eyes that I could not bear to hear him speak about it. Besides, I had no time to think about myself! How could I, when, when—— But you know, Paul!"

It was very wonderful to him to be sitting alone in his own house with Mary in this way. Sometimes he thought he was in a dream, and that he would wake up presently to find all the wild, ghastly realities come to him. But it was no dream. The hundreds of telegrams which came to him expressing delight at the proof of his innocence, and the innumerable messages of goodwill which constantly reached him, made all his black fancies impossible.

He was not happy in a full and complete sense of the word. Even yet he felt his life to be enshrouded in mystery. It seemed to him the problem was not yet solved, and never could be solved this side of eternity. Still, his heart was joyful, for was not Mary by his side? Was he not for ever seeing her winsome smile and the flash of her bright eyes? Was she not for ever seeking to minister to his comfort and to bring sunshine into his life?

He dared not go into the town. He feared to meet the people. He could not bear to hear their kindly words, their exclamations of delight and joy. He knew that the sight of homely faces would unman him, and that he would break down like a child. While the shadow of guilt was upon him, he could be strong even as a stoic might be strong. He could bear hard words and suspicious looks. All through the long trial he had been composed and self-reliant, but that was over now. In a way he could not understand, the hard crust of his nature had been broken up. Paul felt a new man. That black, grimy town was no longer dirty and sordid to him. It was the home of tens of thousands of kind hearts, the home of the people he loved. He saw a meaning in their life which he had never seen before. He had dreams of their future to which he was a stranger in the old days. But he could not go out and meet them, could not clasp friendly hands, could not meet smile with smile. Perhaps it was no wonder. Paul had passed far down the deep, dark Valley of the Shadow of Death, and it seemed at one time as though he would never emerge into the light again, and so it was not strange he should desire to be alone with Mary.

Night came on, and still Judge Bolitho did not come. The last train had arrived in Brunford, but there was no news of him.

"He'll be back when he's done his work," said Mary.

"What work?" asked Paul.

"I don't know," she replied. "But, Paul, you are grieving about me. Don't! I know what's in your mind, but it doesn't matter one bit, not one bit, Paul!"

"But, Mary——"

"No, Paul, not one word! There, it's time for you to go to bed. Kiss me, my love!"

He went towards her, meaning to give her a brotherly kiss, but when he came close to her he caught her in his arms again, and held her passionately to him.

"Good-night, Mary. May God bless you!"

"God?" she said, looking up into his face wonderingly, and there was almost a sob in her voice. "Do you believe in Him at last?"

"May God bless you, my—no, I can't say it. Good-night!"

When Paul went to his room that night, the first night he had slept there since the dread things which had so altered the whole of his life came to him, he sat for a long time thinking. Again he reviewed the past, tried to see its deeper meaning. Then he knelt down by his bedside. He uttered no words, formulated no prayer, but he knew he was very near to the heart of things.

Days passed, and still there was no news of Judge Bolitho. Paul's mother, as steadily she grew stronger, seemed ever to be listening and watching, but she asked no questions and spoke no word about the man of whom both Paul and Mary were sure she was thinking. Both of them rejoiced as they saw her health coming back to her, saw a new light in her eyes, a tenderer expression on her lips. All the same, each of them wondered what the future would bring forth. Neither Mary nor Paul referred again to the shadow which hung upon the former's name. Not one question did Paul ask about her mother, or about the days before they first met each other. He was afraid it would give her pain, and he would rather suffer anything than do that.

On the fourth day after his return, Paul's mother was well enough to come downstairs again. She had clothed herself in the last new dress Paul had bought her, and she blushed like a girl when he told her how young and handsome she looked.

"Nay, Paul, I'm an old woman," she protested. All the same, it was easy to see that she was pleased.

"You're just young and handsome, mother," he repeated. "There's many a lass in Brunford who'd give anything to have your good looks."

"And they say you're the very image of me, Paul! Think now, when you're praising my good looks you're just praising your own!"

In spite of their pleasantries, however, it was easy to see that she was wondering about and longing for something of which she spoke no word.

"Mother, it's eight o'clock. It's time for you to go to bed. You must not take liberties with yourself."

"No," she said. "I'm going to stay up a little longer. I'm not so weak as you think. Did I give way when—when—when I heard how near you were to——? Oh, Paul! my boy! my boy! Thank God! No wonder you love Mary. It was she who saved you! I fancied you had got yourself off by your own cleverness, but, without her——"

"Without her everything would have been impossible," said Paul, but he did not lift his eyes. He was afraid what his mother might see there.

"All the same, you'd better go to bed, mother. You'll be overtired!"

"Listen," she said, and both Mary and Paul saw her hands tremble. "There! There! Don't you hear?"

All plainly heard the sound of wheels outside, an eager step on the path, and then a knock at the door. Paul Stepaside's mother sat rigid. She seemed like one afraid; yet there was a bright light in her eyes all the time.

"Run, my lassie," she said quickly. "Run. Don't wait for one of the maids to go, perhaps it will be——"

But Mary did not hear the end of her sentence. She ran to the door, and opened it, and both mother and son heard whispering voices in the little hall.

A few seconds later Mary returned again, accompanied by Judge Bolitho. He looked from one face to another, as if uncertain of his welcome. He had evidently come from a long journey, for he looked travel-stained and weary, but each noticed how eager his face was. Paul's mother sat rigidly in her chair. She gave no word of welcome, no sign of recognition. It seemed as though the presence of the judge had placed the seal of silence upon her lips. Paul rose and held out his hand.

"No," said the judge. "I will not take your hand."

Paul looked at him in astonishment. It seemed strange to him, after what had passed at their last meeting, for him to act in this way.

"I will not take your hand, Paul, until I have told my story, until you have heard all there is for me to say," said the judge.

CHAPTER XXXIV

JUDGE BOLITHO'S CONFESSION

As Judge Bolitho spoke, Paul saw that his mother drew herself up in her chair and fixed her eyes upon the newcomer with a look of feverish inquiry. No word had passed between them about the past ever since his return home. Never once had she mentioned an incident of her girlhood, neither had she spoken to Paul about the judge's confession, or what it had meant to them both. The servants still spoke to her as "Mrs. Stepaside," even as they spoke of Paul as Paul Stepaside. There seemed something strange in their relations to the judge even yet. There was still, however, that look of continual watchfulness and inquiry in her eyes. It seemed as though she were waiting for something, something of which she dared not speak.

"I feel as though I had no right to sit here," went on the judge, "no right to a welcome of any sort until I have told the truth. When I have spoken you may drive me from your doors, but at least what there is to be made known shall be told truthfully."

No one spoke, but it was easy to see that all were greatly moved. Mary Bolitho, although she had not spoken a word concerning the story of her past, even to Paul, waited with intense eagerness. Her face had become pale and her lips were tremulous. Paul, too, felt as though the issues of light and darkness lay within the next few minutes, while his mother sat rigid in her chair, never moving a muscle, her eyes fixed on the man who had just come into the room.

The judge pulled off his heavy fur-lined coat and went to the door. He seemed afraid lest someone might be listening.

"What I have to say," he said, "is between ourselves alone. A great deal of it is not for the ears of the world, although some of it must perforce be made known."

Silence followed for some time, and the listeners seemed almost too much moved to breathe, while the speaker appeared to find his task even harder than he had imagined. There was a look which suggested fear in his eyes, and although he constantly glanced at the woman opposite him, he seemed unable to gaze at her steadily.

"I need not describe at length that visit to Scotland," he said presently. "You all know practically what there is to know. I was an orphan. On my father's side I belonged to the Scotch people, on my mother's to Cornwall. They died when I was very young, leaving a sum sufficient to educate me and to start me in life—at least, so they thought. I had chosen the profession of the law, and when I took my degree at Oxford I began reading for the Bar. I had imagined that I had an income sufficient to keep me during the time I was passing my examinations and while I might have to wait for briefs. It was at this time that I went to Scotland with some companions. There I met with you, Jean. There I fell in love with you."

The woman gave a quivering sigh as he spoke, but uttered no word. Her eyes were fixed on him steadily. She seemed to be trying to read his soul.

"I do not think I was a bad lad," he went on, "and I loved you truly. I meant every word I said to you. Doubtless from the worldly-wise man's standpoint I was foolish and acted without due thought, but I yielded to the promptings of my heart, and—and so, at least, I can tell you that, Jean."

He was evidently speaking to her rather than to the others. For the moment they might not have existed at all.

"Badly as I may have treated you, you may believe that, at all events, I loved you with all the fresh, warm affection of a boy, and meant nothing but what was right and true."

Again he paused, as if trying to recall the scenes among the Scottish hills.

"You know I had arranged to leave 'Highlands' that morning and to meet you later in a lonely valley among the mountains. Naturally I was much excited and eager to get to your side. Yet even then I was a coward. Had I acted as I ought, I should have taken you to a minister and have married you before witnesses, but the other way appeared easy, and you did not seem to mind. I must confess, too, that the idea of a Scotch marriage was, in some ways, unreal to me. It did not appear to me as binding as a marriage service should. I expect that was why I suggested this method of our becoming man and wife, for I can see it now—I was a coward even then!

"Still, as I have said, I longed to get to your side, longed to make you my wife, even although I felt I might be acting foolishly. So excited was I that when a servant brought me a letter just as I was leaving, I did not trouble to open it. Had I done so, our future might have been different; I do not know; but I'm telling you this that I may keep nothing from you, for I am determined that you shall know the truth and the whole truth. I thought nothing of the letter through the day; my joy at being with you was too great for that, and the excitement of the thought that I was taking you as my wife made me forgetful of everything else. You remember the scene, Jean? You remember how we took each other as man and wife, there amidst the silence and loneliness? You remember, too, how you suggested that we should ask God to bless our union, and how we knelt side by side and prayed? The memory of that hour has whipped me like scorpions ever since.

"When presently we reached the inn, I thought of the letter and read it. It was from my mother's cousin, who had charge of my affairs and acted as a guardian to me. It seems that he loved her when they were boy and girl, and although she married another man, his love never died. Perhaps that was why he was fond of me. But he never liked my father, and hated the name Graham as a consequence. In the letter he wrote, he told me that the little property which I had thought to be mine had all vanished. It seems that it had been invested in what were thought to be perfectly safe securities, but which had become worthless; therefore I, who was not yet called to the Bar, and had no profession, was penniless. He told me it was necessary for me to return immediately, as he had other news of the gravest import to convey to me, but which I could not properly understand through the medium of a letter.

"I've been reading that letter to-day," went on the judge, "and I do not wonder at my being moved by it. It was written in the most solemn fashion, and hinted at a great deal more than it said. It urged me in the most impressive way to return to Cornwall immediately, and told me that I must allow nothing to stand in the way of my coming.

"Well, Jean, you know what happened. I left you on the morning following, telling you to return to your father, to inform him of our marriage, assuring you that I should return very shortly."

Again the judge was silent for some time. He seemed to be fighting with himself, seemed to be unable to express the thoughts which filled his mind.

"My guardian's name," he went on, "was Bolitho. As I told you, he had always been fond of me from a boy, and he was more to me than most fathers are to their sons. When I returned to him late that night, for, as you know, I caught an express train from Carlisle early in the morning and travelled continuously for fourteen hours, I found him eagerly awaiting me, and I thought he looked pale and ill. In spite of my protests, he would not wait until the morning before telling me what he had in his mind. Ever since he had discovered the truth about my affairs, it seemed that he had been making plans about me, and it was not long before I discovered them. As I told you, he hated the name of Graham, because my father had robbed him of the woman he loved, and he told me that he wanted me to take his name and become his son. On condition that I would do this, he would make my future secure and leave me what fortune he possessed. But there was something more than this, and here comes the story of my fall."

Paul's mother moved slightly in her chair, and then, if possible, her form became more rigid than before, but she did not speak.

"Are you sure you can bear this?" asked the judge. "Are you strong enough?"

"I'm not strong enough to leave this room until I know," replied the woman, and each of them realised that every nerve in her body was in tension, and that her suffering, although not physical, defied all description.

"He told me something else," went on the judge. "He told me that he had lately visited his doctor, who had informed him that it was essential to his life for him to go to some Southern land, and suggested New Zealand or Australia, for at least two years. He said that a lengthy sea voyage was first of all absolutely necessary, and that then a residence for a considerable time in a suitable climate must be a condition of his life. If he did not do this he would die.

"You can see what this meant," continued the judge, for the first time looking at Mary and Paul, "and his words almost staggered me. But this was not all. He had promised to care for a widowed sister's child, a girl who was at that time about eighteen years of age; promised her, too, the protection which she had never known from her father. She was called Mary Tregony, and, like the Bolithos, the Tregonys are among the oldest families in England. Of course, I had known her all her life, and in a way looked upon her as a sister."

"'You like Mary?' said my uncle to me.

"And I had to confess that I did, although I only thought of her as a kind of sister.

"'Douglas, my boy,' he said, 'I want you to marry Mary; not yet, for she has not yet left school, but in, say, two years' time, when I am well enough to return to England; then I want you to make her your wife.'"

"It was here," said the judge, "that my cowardice first appeared. I ought to have told Mr. Bolitho that I was already married, and that I had only left my wife early that morning, but I did not. There was no excuse for me, I know; all the same, although I still loved you, Jean, or thought I did, our marriage seemed shadowy, unreal. I forgot what I owed you, forgot my duty to you.

"Mr. Bolitho, although he loved me dearly, was a man who was stern and unbending, a man of iron will, a man always accustomed to have his way. For years I had looked on him with a kind of awe, and had never once dared to disobey him. His word had always been law to me, and even although practically I had reached man's estate, the influence of the past was strong upon me. I dared not tell him the truth, dared not say that I could not do what he asked. I know I was a coward, worse than a coward, but I was silent.

"Presently, however, I made a feeble sort of opposition. I demurred against changing my name, for one thing, and I remember saying that I had no reason to believe that Mary cared for me. But, in his strong, imperious way, he swept down all my opposition. The influence of the past was strong upon me, and I forgot my present duty. Besides, as I said, he was adamant. He grew angry even at the little opposition I offered, and told me that if I did not care enough for him to do what he asked, I must look to myself for my future. And I was penniless, dependent upon him for every farthing. I had no means of earning a living. It is true I had taken a degree at Oxford, but I had no knowledge of any trade, no early prospect of earning money in a profession. What could I do? Besides, I was a coward. No one can scorn that cowardice more than I, but there it was. He appealed to my pity, too. He told me that if I did not go with him abroad he would have to go alone, a sick man among strangers. I soon found out, too, that even my belief in my own property was largely a figment of my own imagination. It is true some little money had been left to me, and had been lost in the way I have indicated, but without him I could never have gone to Oxford, without him I should have been practically a waif. Besides, he was a man of strong personality, and, as I said, of iron will."

The judge made a movement as if of impatience. "What is the use of enlarging upon all this?" he went on presently. "I promised to do what he asked, promised to change my name. That was not much. I knew little and cared less about my father, but my mother was a Bolitho, and I almost adored her memory. I was willing to be called Bolitho instead of Graham. That cost me very little. As to the other, the thought of travelling for two years appealed to me. It is true I was fond of my studies, but I reflected that I could take my books with me, and although it might delay my being called to the Bar by some year or two—I was young, and it did not matter; and so, God forgive me, I forgot the vows I made, forgot my honour. I was a coward! Added to all this, the marriage on the moors became less and less reality. Indeed, after I had been in Cornwall two or three days, it seemed little more than a joke, an episode in a boy's life. I was forgetful of what the consequences of such a deed might be, and I began to look forward to coming days. Presently I wrote that letter. No wonder you could not forgive me. No wonder Paul hated me for it. But there, I wrote it! One thing, and one thing only may be urged in my favour. Although I seemingly consented to the marriage with Mary Tregony, I hoped that something would happen to make it impossible. It all lay in the distance, and that made everything easy to an optimistic youth. I never breathed a word concerning my marriage with Jean. Indeed, I came to look upon it as something that was utterly illegal, and that I could never be expected to stand by what was only, after all, a mere farcical thing, the act of a madcap boy."

The judge wiped the perspiration from his brow before going on again. It was evident that he was suffering greatly. It seemed as though he had not yet reached that point of his story which was more difficult to tell than any other, still, he plodded on his weary way, although the words came with difficulty.

"In two years' time we returned from abroad. By this time I was accustomed to the name of 'Bolitho.' Steps had been taken to make it legal, and I had to a very large extent forgotten my former name. I was Mr. Bolitho's adopted son, and I called him 'father.' During the years we had been away together, too, his influence upon me had grown stronger. I was afraid to do anything in opposition to his will. His resolute, imperious nature made me almost like an obedient slave, and not only that, I loved him too. I knew I owed everything to him, and he was almost uniformly kind to me. Thus, while I feared him, my fear was mingled with filial love.

"When we returned to England I started in earnest with my law studies. I had not altogether neglected them while I had been away, and so I went to London for my dinners, and in due time was called to the Bar, with, it was said, a great deal of distinction. By this time my experiences in Scotland became, to my shame, almost a shadowy memory to me. I cared for no other woman, and there were times, too, when I dreamed of Jean, and thought of her fondly, but only rarely. The Scotch episode was but an episode. One thing gladdened me, Mary Tregony seemed to care nothing for me, and in spite of Mr. Bolitho's persuasions, there were no definite arrangements made about our marriage. Presently, however, after I had been practising some time, and had obtained a modicum of success, indeed, a success great enough to promise well for the future, my adopted father wrote to me saying that Mary had at length consented to our wedding. It was at this time that I began to be afraid. What I had laughed at in my heart as the Scotch episode, became real. I remember, too, that at that time I was engaged in a bigamy trial, and I remember the terms which the judge used concerning the man who was found guilty. Yet here was I, who had acted as junior counsel for the prosecution of this man, contemplating taking a woman to wife, when I had promised before God to be faithful to another. I tried to persuade myself that the Scotch marriage was not only informal but illegal, and could have no weight of whatever nature, yet my heart swept away all the sophistries of my mind, and proclaimed me to be a villain. So much moved was I by this that I at length decided to send a man to Scotland to make inquiries. Of course, he never dreamed of my connection with the affair, and thought that I was only hunting up evidence for some case in which I was interested professionally. After a time he returned with the news that Jean Lindsay was dead, that she died some months after I had left her, probably of a broken heart, certainly in disgrace. Need I say what I suffered? You would not believe me if I told you! How could anyone who had acted a coward's part as I had, suffer? Yet so it was. And yet in my suffering was a sense of freedom. Nothing now seemed to depend upon the possible legality or illegality of my former marriage. The woman I had wedded was dead, at least so I was assured, and so I believed. I went to Cornwall prepared to do my adopted father's bidding.

"When I arrived there, I found him almost in a state of panic. Mary was missing! What had become of her no one knew. Personally I believed that she so hated the thought of marrying me that she had determined to escape. More than five years had now passed away since my visit to Scotland, and, as I said, I had been called to the Bar with fair prospects of success. The name I bore was old and respected. It was a passport into any society that I desired. Again I felt as though the fates were fighting for me. After all, in spite of everything, I should be free to live my own life, and the consequences of my cowardice and sin would never be visited upon me. The fact that my name had been changed from Graham to Bolitho was practically unknown, and even those with whom I forgathered as a student had become accustomed to my new name. It seemed natural to them, I suppose, that I, in order to become my adopted father's heir, should also adopt his name. Indeed, I have been described in certain handbooks as the only son of Hugh Bolitho of Tredinnick, Cornwall.

"More than a year passed before I heard anything again of Mary Tregony, and then I received an urgent message summoning me to the West of England. It seems that my adopted father had at length found out where she was, found out, too, that she had been the victim of a villain. A wild rake, a man of no character, who had been kicked out of the army, and who was already married, had deceived her. I need not mention his name now, indeed it is well that I should not, and it has no real bearing upon what I am telling you, but he was a handsome dare-devil kind of fellow who appealed to the heart of a romantic young girl, and she trusted him. Soon after their supposed marriage she found out what she had done."

The judge ceased speaking for a few seconds.

"There was no one louder in his condemnation than I, no one called him viler names than I, and yet I knew in my heart all the time that my villainy was as great as his.

"My adopted father met me at Plymouth and led me to a low part of the town where she had taken lodgings. It was here her child had been born, a child she dared not own, a child to whom the stigma of disgrace would be attached if the truth were made known. As I told you, my adopted father loved Mary Tregony almost as he loved me, and it was the dream of his heart that we should be man and wife. It seems almost like a fairy story now, but at that time it was terribly real. Even yet I can hardly believe in its truth. We found Mary lying in a miserable room, with her child sleeping by her side—a little girl."

The judge turned, and gave a hasty glance at Mary as he spoke. It was only for a second, but he saw that her face was blanched and set, while in her eyes was a look of horror.

"The doctor who had been called in had said that Mary Tregony was dying, that at most she could live only a few hours, and my adopted father demanded that I should marry her, and thus save her name from dishonour, and take the child as my own. I have told you of the power he had over me, how practically all my life I had never thought of disobeying him, and in spite of myself he persuaded me now."

During the whole of this recital Paul's mother had never uttered a word, save in answer to the one question which Judge Bolitho had spoken to her, but she had sat rigid in form and face, her hands clasped to the arms of her chair, her eyes fixed on the speaker's face, never missing a word that was uttered. Now, however, she spoke.

"And did you dare to marry her?" she said passionately. "You—you, who had——"

"Wait a minute," said the judge. "There were certain legal formalities to be complied with, a certain time to wait before any marriage could be made legal. We were no longer in Scotland, as in the days when I married you, Jean. We were in England. Yes, I decided to obey my adopted father's command. As it seemed to me, I owed everything to him and I could not withstand his pleadings. For he did plead, pleaded as I never thought a man could, pleaded his love for Mary, his love for her honour, pleaded that her child should have an honourable name—and I yielded to him."

"Then I am not your child really?" cried Mary.

"Wait a little," said the judge. "Before the time came when Mary could legally be made my wife, she died."

"Then you never married her?" said Paul's mother, her voice hoarse and unnatural.

"No. I never married her."

"Then—then?" said Mary.

"Then my adopted father made me solemnly promise that I would take you as my child, that it should be made known that I had married your mother secretly, and that she was dead.

"I suppose I was much excited. Certain I am that my mind did not fully comprehend the real issues of the case. Anyhow, I promised him. As you know, Mary, I have never told you much about your mother, neither have I since visited that part of Cornwall where she was known. All you have heard has been that your mother died when you were born, and you have regarded me as your father from the time you understood anything."

There was a silence in the room for some time, save for the tick of the clock on the mantelpiece. All seemed to be so overwhelmed by what they had heard that for the moment they were incapable of speech.

"It is ever the same," said the judge. "Lying, cowardice are followed by the most terrible penalties. I have felt many a time that cowardice is the father of nearly all our crimes."

"But," cried Paul, and his voice was vibrant with strong emotion, "then Mary is not my sister, she is—she can be—— Oh, Mary, forgive me! I did not think! I did not remember!"

Mary did not appear to hear him. Her eyes were fixed on Judge Bolitho's face, and she seemed to be trying to understand.

"I could say nothing about this before," went on the judge, "even when the truth which was revealed during the trial came to me. I had sworn to be silent. I dared not make known the truth. I dared not let this shadow rest upon Mary's name, even although it seemed as though a greater shadow rested upon it. You know what followed after that day in the courts, when I confessed that Jean was my wife and that Paul was my son. At last I had made up my mind that I would be a coward no longer, that, whatever the consequences might be, I would walk in the straight path. I could not tell all the truth because of my solemn oath to my adopted father. Besides, the great thought in my mind was to save Paul. I need not refer to that now, you know all about it! But for Mary, here—well, thank God, Mary saved him! But for her, the truth would never have come to light. But directly I knew that Paul was free, I left you, determined to make the crooked places straight. I hastened to London, and after doing what needed to be done there, I hurried on to Cornwall. I saw my adopted father—he's an old man now, but he's lost none of the strength of his younger manhood. I fought a hard battle with him, but that's nothing—the result is that I am able to tell you what I've told you."

The judge's eyes sought those of the older woman, who still sat rigidly in her chair. He seemed to be on the point of speaking to her, but before he could do so Paul broke in.

"Then the shame which has been attached to my name must be attached to Mary's!" he cried.

"Never," replied the judge. "That need not be. Concerning Mary's birth no word need be uttered. There is no need that we should deceive anyone, nevertheless the truth is not for the world. I need only say that Mary is not my child, but that I have simply reared her as my own. Her mother was a pure woman, but concerning her parentage we need say nothing."

"I would rather," cried Paul, "that my own name——"

"Stop, Paul!" said Mary. "It does not matter at all. How can it, when—when—— Oh, Paul, Paul, my love!"

"I've always loved you like my own child," said the judge, "and under ordinary circumstances these revelations should never have passed my lips, but—but I—I thought, I understood——"

Paul dared not speak again. The truth was that the knowledge which had come to him in such a strange way overwhelmed him with joy. It seemed to him as though that dark winter night had changed into a June morning. Everything was possible. His mind had swept aside the little conventions of men. Mary's presence and Mary's love were all the world to him.

The judge again looked towards Paul's mother. "I have not quite finished yet," he said, and his voice trembled as he spoke. "And I want to say something more. You know all now, Jean, know what a coward I've been, know how that cowardice meant your misery and your disgrace. I do not seek to excuse my conduct. It cannot be excused, and yet I must speak the truth, I must——"

He hesitated a second, and then went on, "Can you forgive me, Jean? Through all you have been pure and worthy, while I have been unworthy. My name has been spoken of with honour, and yours has been covered with shame through me. Can you forgive me? And more—perhaps you will scorn me and repel me when I tell you this—but after that night when I saw you in Manchester and knew that you still lived, all my old love came back to me; I know that really it had never died. Jean, can you forgive me?"

The eyes of the man and the woman met. At first hers seemed hard and unyielding—she was evidently fighting a great battle. Then slowly, little by little, they underwent a change, and Paul saw that the tears were welling up.

"Jean! Jean!" said the judge, holding out his hands. "Have you no word for me?"

"Come, Mary," said Paul. "Let us go into the other room."

And they went out, leaving the two together.

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