"It'll all come out right," she said, and there was a kind of hysteria in her voice.
"It must," was his reply. "I have thought it all out, mother. I have gone over the ground, step by step, and you needn't fear."
"That's why you're going to defend yourself, isn't it?" and she almost laughed. "You're going to surprise them at the trial? You won't tell what your thoughts are to anyone, for fear they shall make a bungle of it? Half these barristers, I'm told, are very muddle-headed, and make all sorts of foolish admissions; and you're going to defend yourself in your own way, aren't you?"
"Yes, mother," he replied, "in my own way."
"I expect they'll bring me as a witness."
"Well, what if they do, mother? You must know nothing, absolutely nothing. Do you see? You went to bed that night in the ordinary way, don't you remember? I came home from London, and we had a long talk together, and then you asked me to go to bed, and I told you I had a great many things to think about, many plans to arrange; and, of course, you went to bed. You saw nothing, suspected nothing. That's your line, mother. Don't hazard any opinion when they ask you questions. Say 'Yes,' or 'No.' Do you see?"
"Is that what you want?" she said.
"That's what you must do."
She looked at him steadily, searchingly. "And I can trust you, Paul?" She seemed on the point of telling him something—something which he was afraid to hear. So he went on hastily:
"Of course you can. You must fear nothing, absolutely nothing; and you have nothing to do, nothing to say. Yes, it will be awful for you, for they will be sure to bring you as a witness, but that's your line."