Preston's face was pale as ashes. He could scarcely speak. "I couldn't help it," he said.
"Nay, I suppose not. But it seemed to me that every answer tha gave was another strand in the rope which shall hang him."
"God knows," said Preston, "if I could have answered in any other way than I did I would have done so."
"Then tha doesna believe he did it?"
"I don't know what to believe. I know he hated Wilson. I know they've been at daggers drawn for years, but I can't believe that Paul did it that way. He isn't that kind of man. Besides, it doesn't stand to reason that he should have taken the knife that was known to be his to do such work."
"That's where I'm stalled."
"And yet, what could I do? As far as I know, nobody did go into the office, and nobody could take it without his knowing."
"We've noan heard the last on it yet. Things'll come to light."
"Ay," whispered another man in another part of the room. "'He that hateth his brother is a murderer'—that's Scripture, ain't it? And Paul hated Wilson. Besides, he had no faith in owt. He believed in neither God nor devil. Ay, it's a sad thing when a chap's given up faith in religion."
And so men talked, while many shook their heads and wondered. Many did not believe in his guilt, and yet when the question was asked as to who could be guilty if not he, no reply was given.