"I remember. I suppose it had something to do with your own life?"
"You have heard the miserable stories, then?" said Paul.
"I have heard a great many things about you," replied the chaplain.
"Well, then," said Paul. "Let me say this to you: I think this would convince me that there might be something in religion if my father confessed his wrong, publicly confessed it, mind you, and sought to do right; if he proclaimed his ill-deeds before the world, and did all in his power to rectify the wrong he had done. Then I might believe."
"And nothing else would convince you?" said the chaplain.
"Nothing else," said Paul.
"But who is your father? Where is he?"
"Ah," said Paul. "But it's no use thinking of it any more. The whole thing is hopeless, and life is just a great mockery."
The chaplain left him with a sad heart. He was a kind man, and sought to do his duty, and Paul had interested him strangely.
The court that day was, if possible, more crowded than ever. The morning papers had been filled with reports of the previous day's trial. The wildest of rumours had been afloat. Descriptive articles had been written about the young Member of Parliament who was accused of such a terrible crime. His every word had been commented on. His appearance had been discussed. The evidence given had been the subject of thousands of gossiping tongues. And so the court that day was simply thronged with an intense, eager crowd. Moreover, the inwardness of the trial had seized upon the imaginations of the people. It was more real, more vivid to them than it had been the day before. And when Paul entered the dock, accompanied by two policemen, a great silence fell upon the court, while every eye was fixed upon him.