"Half-past eight o'clock, sir. Are yo noan gettin' up? And summat terrible has happened!"
"What's happened?" he asked.
"Mr. Ned Wilson is dead. He's been murdered! He was found this mornin'."
He did not reply. It seemed as though he had lost the power of speech. Mechanically he looked out of the window, and saw the murky, smoke-laden air. It seemed to him as though the roar of a thousand looms reached his ears. He pictured the weavers standing in their weaving sheds. He did not know why he did this; in fact, it did not seem to matter. Nothing mattered. Mechanically he dressed himself. There seemed no reason why he should go downstairs, but he was merely a creature of habit. "I wonder where she is!" he said to himself again and again. "I wonder where she is. I wonder, too——" Again a knock came at his door.
"Well?" he said. "What is it?"
"A sergeant of the police and two constables are at the door. They want to see you particular," said the servant.
"All right," he said. "I shall be down in a minute."
He remembered tying his necktie with great care, and then went down into the hall. No sooner had he done so than the sergeant came forward, and put his hand upon his shoulder.
"Paul Stepaside," he said, "I apprehend you for the murder of Mr. Edward Wilson."