"You must cast your mind back a bit, Mr. Stepaside," he said, "and then ask yourself one thing. Is there anyone in Brunford who has a grudge against you?"
"Yes," said Paul. "It's known, is that grudge. It is well known that several years ago Ned Wilson and I had a quarrel which neither of us have forgotten."
"Yes," said Enoch, "and remember what's happened since. There was a riot, and you were dragged into it in spite of yourself."
"I know," said Paul. "But surely you don't mean——"
"I mean nothing," replied Standring. "I only ask you to bear it in mind. You were dragged into it in spite of yourself. Although you tried to dissuade the chaps who were engaged in it from doing anything rash, it seemed as though you were the ringleader. For that you were sent to Strangeways Gaol for six months. Who employed Bolitho for the prosecution? I needn't go into particulars about it; but that's one fact. Then there's something else. When you came out, you decided to start manufacturing, and you got the promise of a factory, with some looms and power, cheap. Then, without any reason, you were told you couldn't have it. Somebody else got it. Who got it? We know. I make no comment, but there it is. Presently the election came on, and nasty stories got to be afloat about your birth and parentage. It was whispered about that you were a come-by-chance child, and your mother was a bad woman. Who was responsible for that? We don't know, or, at least, we can't prove; but, put two and two together. In spite of everything you began to gain ground. People began to support you, and it looked very bad for the other side. You know that; everyone knows it. And then came this other affair. You didn't know that anyone else was manufacturing what you manufactured. You thought it was your secret; but the secret leaked out. I don't say who betrayed you, but there it is. But this I've found out: an old, disused mill was taken the other side of Manchester. Who took it? The name of the owner was kept quiet. It was said to be run by a little private company. That was some time ago now, and ever since that mill was taken there's been a kind of secret as to who owned it. But I've discovered this: they manufactured the same stuff that you manufacture. But they did not try to sell it. They kept piling it up in their warehouses. Can you see the meaning of this? It was kept quiet, mind; as quiet as death. Nobody seemed to know the stuff they were turning out. Then suddenly that stuff was pushed on the market at a price which left no margin for profits; nay, they offered it at a price less, far less, than you can manufacture it for. For months they had been piling it up in the warehouses, and they were able to flood the market. Now you know why the prices went down, and why you could not sell your stuff except at a ruinous loss!"
Paul listened to the young man with pale face and set features. He spoke no word, but it was easy to see that he grasped every detail which the young man mentioned. He saw the purport of his words too.
"I see," he said quietly. "And have you found out who the owner of that factory is?"
"Yes," replied Enoch Standring, "I have found out."
"Ned Wilson, of course," said Paul.
"Ay," replied the other laconically.