She had heard all that had been said. She knew that her young master was accused of murder, and in a way she believed it, but she could not treat him disrespectfully. There was something in his presence that made it impossible.
"The cab's outside," said Broglin. "I'd better put on the handcuffs, I suppose?"
Paul lifted his eyebrows. For the first time he fully realised what was taking place. All the ghastly disgrace, the terrible notoriety, became real to him. He knew that in a few minutes the whole town would be agog with excitement. His most intimate affairs would be discussed by every gossip in Brunford. Still, it could not be helped. The thing had to be gone through, and he must go through with it. But he must be careful not to betray himself or anyone else.
"There is no need of the handcuffs, Broglin," he said. "Still, do your duty."
"I am sorry," said the man. "But, you see, it's a serious affair, and—and——"
"Never mind," interrupted Paul, "put them on!"
He stepped into the cab, and the three burly forms of the policemen also went with him. The word was given to the driver, and a few minutes later he felt himself drawn towards the Town Hall.
"Shall I pull down the blinds, Mr. Stepaside?" said Broglin.
For a moment he was tempted to say "Yes," but only for a moment. It was no use. What would be the good of blinds? Every one would know. Even now he saw groups of people in the street, talking excitedly, while more than one looked curiously at the cab in which he rode. He had no doubt that reporters were near, eager to get a sensational account for the local papers. It would be a godsend to them. Paul Stepaside, Member of Parliament for Brunford, the man who had been spoken of as the idol of the people—he, whose one speech in the House of Commons had given him an almost national reputation, would now be notorious for one of the foulest deeds of which a man is capable. Still, he did not lose control over himself. He sat quietly, grimly, thoughtfully. There was that in his heart which he dared not reveal, and which at all hazards must be kept buried.
Presently the cab reached the Town Hall. A number of loafers were hanging around, while many had gone so far as to leave their work in order not to miss such a sight. It was not like an ordinary murder. Ned Wilson was the son of one of the most prominent men in the district; and Paul Stepaside, who had come to Brunford only a few years before, had become the most noted man in the town—and now it had come to this! A few minutes later he found himself in a cold, dark cell.