"Yes, I understand, Paul. You can trust me. Perhaps they will not bring me at all."
"I hope, I hope—— No, it's all right; nothing will be said."
When they parted a little later, Paul thought his senses were leaving him. He understood nothing, except that he was in a cell in Strangeways Gaol, awaiting his trial for murder.
Presently the news came to him that the assizes had commenced, but when his own trial would come on no one seemed to know. He still refused all offers of defence. The truth was, he dared not open his heart to any lawyer. He saw that if he were to allow anyone to defend him, he must of necessity give them a certain amount of confidence. He must trust them. That he could not afford to do. He was not afraid to die, and at least he had courage enough to be silent.
Presently the news reached him that he was to be brought to the bar of judgment on the following day, but still he refused all offers of defence. He gave no reason for this; indeed, he became more and more grimly silent than ever. He simply shook his head when those who pretended to wish him well pleaded that they might be allowed to appear for his defence.
On the night before his trial, therefore, he sat in his cell alone. The day had been black and grimy, and not a shadow of sunshine penetrated the gloom. Perhaps there is no town in England which looks more grey and sordid than Manchester does in the dead of the winter. The streets are covered with black, slimy mud; the atmosphere is dank and smoke-laden; the houses are grey and enveloped in gloom; even the crowds which throng its streets seem oppressed by the grime-laden air. And Strangeways Gaol is perhaps the most forbidding place in the whole of this great northern metropolis. As someone has said; "Manchester is one of the best places in the world to get out of." Of course, there's another side to that; it is a city full of strong, clear-headed, progressive people. On the whole, too, there are but few people in the world more loyal and more kind-hearted than those in what a great divine used to call, "Dear, black, old, smoky Lancashire." But in the dead of the winter, and to a man with the shadow of the gallows resting upon him, there can be no place in the world so little to be desired. The black night of despair was resting upon Paul's heart. On the morrow the great trial would commence, and although he thought he had arranged everything perfectly, he could not help fearing the results. And then, while his thoughts were at their blackest, he heard a voice which thrilled his being and caused every nerve to quiver with delight.
"This is the one," he heard a warder say. And a minute later he was alone with Mary Bolitho.