"Will you write that letter, and give up all thoughts of such a thing for all time?"

Wilson answered in language which I will not set down. This time his words were loud enough for the two men to hear—words which were calculated to rouse anger in the heart of the mildest of men, and Paul was not a mild man. They saw Paul look towards the other with murder in his eyes, saw his hand uplifted as if to strike, then they saw him master himself.

"Very well, then," he said. "I shall do what I say," and turned on his heel to walk away.

He had not gone six steps, however, before Wilson, blind with rage and the pent-up fury of years burning in his heart, rushed after him, and with all the strength that he possessed struck Paul on the head with an ivory-handled walking stick. The young man fell to the ground with a thud, for the moment stunned, while Wilson stood over him trembling with passion, and as if waiting for an attack.

Paul quickly recovered himself, and rose to his feet. He wiped the blood from his face, and then seemed undecided what to do. He struck no blow, but spoke in tones loud enough for the watchers to hear him plainly. "I might have expected this," he said. "It was a coward's blow, the kind of blow such as you always strike. But, remember, I always pay my debts—always, even to the uttermost farthing." Then he walked away without another word.



CHAPTER XII

A NIGHT OF DOOM

Paul found his way back to his home, thinking over what had taken place. He was still half-dazed by the blow he had received, and his heart was filled with black rage. Perhaps, too, he was the more angry because he found it difficult to perform what he had threatened. In spite of himself he shrank from writing to the paper contradicting the engagement. He had no right to do so. For all he knew, the engagement might be an actual fact. He did not believe that Mary Bolitho had consented of her own free will to marry Wilson, and yet he did not know. Rumour had it that her father was not a wealthy man; and, after all, Wilson was one of the richest men in Lancashire, the home of huge fortunes. It might be, therefore, that Judge Bolitho had persuaded her against her will to marry this man. It would relieve him of all financial worries. From some standpoints it would be a brilliant match. It was true, Wilson was not a man who would shine in Mary Bolitho's circle, but money can do a great deal, and here he was almost all-powerful. But that was not all. Brunford, like all provincial towns, was noted for its gossip, and if he contradicted the engagement, all sorts of wild rumours would be afloat. Mary Bolitho's name would be discussed by all sorts of people, and things would be said which would madden both him and her. Still, she must know the truth. If he told her certain things he knew about Wilson, he believed he could save her from him. But even here difficulties presented themselves. Could he prove these facts in such a way that Mary Bolitho would be convinced? And should he not, by so doing, make himself appear to her a spy and an informer? He did not know much about such matters, but it was not a dignified role to play. In a way it would be striking below the belt. He would not be playing the game. And the thought was hateful to him. "But she must know, she must know!" he said to himself, as he trudged along the road. "And I'll not be beaten, especially by a man like that." And then he remembered the blow which had been struck. "Yes, he shall pay for it!" he said grimly, as he wiped the blood away from his face. "He shall pay for it to the uttermost farthing!"

When he reached his home it was dark, and he was still undecided as to the exact course he should pursue. He opened the door with his latch-key, and switched on the electric light. As he did so his mother came into the hall. "Paul," she said, "what is the matter?"

"Nothing," he replied, trying to evade her gaze.

"But your face is bleeding. There's an ugly wound in your temple!"

"It's nothing," he replied. "Just a slight scratch, that's all."

"It's no scratch," said the mother. "Tell me, what is it, Paul? I must know!" And she caught him by the arm.

"It's no use telling you, mother," he said, facing her. "And you needn't trouble; I am not hurt very much."

The woman looked searchingly at his face, and knew by its extreme pallor and the tremor of his lips that he was much wrought upon.

"Paul," she said. "This is Wilson's doing!"

"Is it?" he said, with an uneasy laugh. "Well, he shall pay for it, anyhow!"

"I was right, then. It's true. Has he beaten you?"

"No, mother," he said. "I'm not to be beaten by Wilson."

"You shall not! You shall not!" And her voice was hoarse. "Tell me, Paul, tell me. What is it? I must know—I will know!"

"Very well," he said. "If you will know, come into my study." And then he described the scene which had taken place.

The woman fixed her eyes upon him, and kept them fixed all the time he was speaking. Her face never moved a muscle, although her hands clenched and unclenched themselves nervously. "And you'll pay him out for this?" she said at length, when he had finished his story.

"Yes," he said, "he shall be paid out."

"But how? Tell me, Paul?"

"I have not quite made up my mind yet, mother. I must sleep on it."

"Sleep on it!" And there was an intensity in her tones which almost frightened him. "Sleep on it—sleep on it! Will you let a man like that get the better of you? Will you have a wound like that—a wound, the marks of which you'll carry to your grave, and then say you'll sleep on it? Paul, you're chicken-hearted."

"No," he replied. "I'm not chicken-hearted; but whatever is done, mother, I must save Mary Bolitho's name from being dragged into the mire. But you need not fear."

For an hour or more they talked, the woman asking questions, and Paul answering them.

"Come," said his mother presently, "you'll be wanting some supper!"

"No," he said. "I want no supper, but I think I want to be alone, mother. I have a great deal to think about."

"I wish you'd let me do your thinking for you, Paul." And Paul almost shuddered as he saw the look in her eyes. "You think I'm a weak woman," she went on. "You think I know nothing, and can do nothing. But you're mistaken, my boy. I know a great deal, and can do a great deal."

She reached towards him, and put her arms round his neck. "Oh, my lad, my lad!" she said. "You're the only thing I love. All through those long years in Cornwall I had nothing to brighten my life but the thought of you. I had only one thing to live for and to hope for, and that was your happiness; and you shall have it. All that you hope for, Paul—all that you hope for shall come to pass. Sometimes a weak, ignorant woman can do more than a clever man; and you're clever. Oh, yes, you are! You've got into Parliament, and you'll make a name in the world; but you haven't found the things you started out to find. You haven't got your rightful name. But you shall have everything, Paul: you shall have revenge, and you shall have love; and I, your mother, will give it you. As for that man Wilson, never fear, Paul, you shall have your revenge!"

"What do you mean, mother?"

"I mean all I say, Paul; never fear. But you want to be alone now, so I'll go and leave you."

As she went towards the door, he heard her muttering something about Howden Clough, but he did not pay much attention to her; his mind was too full of other things.

She closed the door behind her, and left him to his thoughts. He went into the lavatory and bathed his face, and as he looked at the wound on his temple a curious smile played around his lips. Presently he went back to his study again, and sat for hours brooding and planning, Murder was in his heart. "And they talk of God," he said. "They talk of a beneficent Providence that controls all and arranges all! A man has to be his own Providence. He has to shape his own destiny. He has to fight his own battles."

It was nearly midnight when at length he rose to his feet. His mind seemed to be made up as to what he intended to do. His course was mapped out. "Why, it's nearly twelve o'clock," he said. "And mother has not come to bid me 'Good-night.' I wonder why." He left the room, and found that the house was in absolute silence. All the lights were turned out; the ticking of an eight-day clock in the hall sounded clearly in the silence of the night. "I'll go up into her room," he said. Forthwith he went noiselessly up the thickly carpeted stairway, and knocked at her bedroom door. There was no answer. "Mother," he said, "mother. I want to speak to you." But there was no reply. All was silent.

He opened the door and went in. The room was empty, and the bed was unruffled. A strange feeling possessed him; he did not know what it was. It seemed as though something terrible had happened, but he could see nothing. Almost mechanically he opened some of the cupboards in the room, and saw his mother's dresses hanging—the dresses which he had bought for her with a great love in his heart. "I wonder where she is," he said. "I think I will go up to the top floor, and rouse the servants." Suiting the action to the thought, he went up the next flight of stairs. He stood for a moment and listened. He thought he heard the servants breathing heavily. Evidently they were fast asleep, and would know nothing about his mother. "I should only start them talking if I asked them where she is," he thought to himself. "Perhaps, after all, she is in one of the other rooms!"

Feeling almost like a thief, he visited every part of the house, but no one was there, and everything was as silent as death. "I can't go to bed and not know where she is," he reflected. "I wonder what she meant when she talked to me so strangely—what she had in her mind! I must know, I must know!" He opened the door, and went out into the night. The sky was moonless, but for a wonder it was resplendent with stars. All the factory fires were low, and the air was no longer smoke-sodden. The wind came from the sea, and he breathed deeply. It seemed as though a great healing power passed over his heart. He went into the little garden upon which he had bestowed such care, and stood still, listening. Not a sound broke the silence. Not a footstep was to be heard. A thought struck him, and he hurried back to the house again. The bonnet and boots which his mother usually wore when she went out were missing, and, as he noticed it, a great fear entered his heart. He looked at his watch; it was nearly midnight. "I wonder—I wonder!" he said to himself. A minute later he had closed the door, and was walking in the direction of Howden Clough.

It was six o'clock in the morning when he returned; but the month being December, darkness still reigned supreme. Black clouds now covered the sky, and a wailing wind passed round the house. He turned up the electric light, and saw that his mother's boots were placed ready for cleaning. They were covered with mud. Evidently she had had a long tramp.

"At any rate, she has returned," he said to himself. He went into all the downstairs rooms, but she was nowhere visible. Then he climbed the stairs again, and stood at his mother's bedroom door. He opened it and went in. The bed had not been used at all, but sitting in an armchair, just under the electric light, was his mother, her face buried in her hands.

"Mother," he said, "where have you been?"

She took no notice; perhaps she did not hear him. He came up to her side and touched her, upon which she started to her feet. "Mother," he repeated, "where have you been?" And he could not help noticing a kind of unholy triumph in her face. "Why are you not in bed?" he asked. "It is six o'clock in the morning, and your bed has not been slept on."

"It's all right, Paul," she said. "It's all right. Never mind; you needn't fear. I've found out something. I've done something!"

"Found out something! Done something! What?"

"I am not going to tell you," she said, and the look on her face frightened him. It might be that some long-desired thing had been given to her—some great object attained, some unholy desire gratified. For the look on her face was not one that a man loves to see in the face of his mother.

"All you hoped for shall come to pass, Paul. Yes, all—all, my boy; don't be afraid. I've done it!"

Her words sounded like a knell in his soul. It seemed to him that they had a dark, ominous meaning. He was not a nervous man, rather he was strong, determined, not easily moved; but it seemed as though something had gripped him, and he was afraid.

"I never dreamt when I went out," she said, "that I should do such a good night's work—never dreamt that everything would come so easily." And then she laughed.

"Tell me what you mean, mother."

"No, Paul, nothing. But you'll have a surprise—yes, you'll have a surprise!"

She might have been mad. Her face was strange, her words were strange, the look on her face was such as he had never seen before.

"Go to bed," she said. "Go to bed quickly. The maids will be up soon, and they must suspect nothing. Sleep in peace, my boy; your debts shall be paid, paid to the utmost farthing!"

He stooped to kiss her, and she threw her arms wildly round his neck. "Oh, my lad, my lad!" she said; "morning is coming, the morning is coming. There's a God in the Heavens after all! And yet, and yet—— Oh, Paul, I forgot, I forgot! Did I tell you that everything could be? Nothing can be, my boy, nothing! I forgot! I forgot!"

And her voice almost rose to a scream.

"What is it, mother?"

She walked round the room like one demented. "I did not think of that," she said. "I did not think of that. I thought I had made everything plain. I thought, I thought, and now——"

"Tell me, mother, tell me!"

"No, I can't tell you. It would kill you—kill you; and I thought there was a God in the heavens. And there isn't, Paul. There isn't. Only the Devil lives. Oh, my boy! my boy! But leave me, leave me. I must think, I must think. There, go away. Don't trouble about me, Paul. I'm all right, I'm all right. But go away! Go away!" She pushed him out of the room as she spoke, and locked the door behind him.

"She's right in one thing, at all events," said Paul. "I can do no good by staying with her, and I had better go to bed. The servants will be talking, else, and they must know nothing." He threw himself on the bed, and tried to understand all that had taken place. It seemed as though something terrible had happened, some dire calamity had taken place. The world seemed a different place from what it had been a few hours before. Since meeting with Ned Wilson, that had happened which had altered the whole course of his life. The very air seemed laden with terror, the skies were black with doom. It seemed to him as though ravens were croaking, and the church bell tolling for the dead; and then, while trying to drive the black scenes of the night from his mind, it seemed as though his senses became dulled. Everything became unreal. The past might have been blotted out, even those years at St. Mabyn were like a dream, while all the events since were just as a tale that is told. It was simply Nature taking him into her arms, and rocking him on her broad bosom. His strength had given way. The events of the night, his home-coming, his mother's strange behaviour, and the excitement which it all meant had simply worn him out, and now Nature was trying to restore him. He fell into a deep, dreamless sleep, and lay like a log upon his bed. How long he slept he did not know, but presently he heard a sharp knock at the door.

"It's half-past eight o'clock, sir. Are yo noan gettin' up?"

"What?" he cried, half asleep.

"Half-past eight o'clock, sir. Are yo noan gettin' up? And summat terrible has happened!"

"What's happened?" he asked.

"Mr. Ned Wilson is dead. He's been murdered! He was found this mornin'."

He did not reply. It seemed as though he had lost the power of speech. Mechanically he looked out of the window, and saw the murky, smoke-laden air. It seemed to him as though the roar of a thousand looms reached his ears. He pictured the weavers standing in their weaving sheds. He did not know why he did this; in fact, it did not seem to matter. Nothing mattered. Mechanically he dressed himself. There seemed no reason why he should go downstairs, but he was merely a creature of habit. "I wonder where she is!" he said to himself again and again. "I wonder where she is. I wonder, too——" Again a knock came at his door.

"Well?" he said. "What is it?"

"A sergeant of the police and two constables are at the door. They want to see you particular," said the servant.

"All right," he said. "I shall be down in a minute."

He remembered tying his necktie with great care, and then went down into the hall. No sooner had he done so than the sergeant came forward, and put his hand upon his shoulder.

"Paul Stepaside," he said, "I apprehend you for the murder of Mr. Edward Wilson."



CHAPTER XIII

HOW MARY BOLITHO RECEIVED THE NEWS

Just before Christmas Mary Bolitho returned to her father's house from London, where she had been visiting some friends. It was during this visit that the meeting between herself and Paul, which we have previously described, took place. During the rest of her stay in London she constantly thought of what he had said to her, and wondered whether, in the excitement of the moment, she had spoken foolishly. She admired Paul greatly, even in spite of the dislike which still lurked in her heart. She had an admiration for strong, capable men, and had been greatly interested in the career which she felt sure lay before him. Nevertheless, a strong feeling of antagonism possessed her. His air of masterfulness irritated her, and in her quiet hours she felt angry because he possessed a kind of fascination for her. She could not help being pleased at his evident admiration for her, and she thought of his avowal with feelings almost akin to delight, and yet she never meant to encourage him. A great gulf lay between them, and the thought of crossing it was not seriously entertained. He might be ambitious, and he might carve out a great future; but still he was of the working class, and doubtless had the instincts of his class.

On her return home she found her father much preoccupied. During the whole of the dinner hour he scarcely spoke, but presently, when the servants had left them, he seemed desirous of entering into conversation with her.

"Have you had a good time in London, Mary?" he said.

"A very interesting time indeed," was her reply. "The Scotmans were very kind."

"I suppose Stepaside's speech was talked about a good deal?"

"Yes," replied the girl. "He seems to have made a great impression. People are very much interested in him, too; and he was at the house of Sir John Sussex on the night when he gave that reception."

"Did you see him?"

"Yes," she replied.

"And speak to him?"

"It was difficult to avoid doing that. You see, I had met him once or twice, and when he came to me I had to be civil."

"The impertinent upstart!" cried Mr. Justice Bolitho, and there was almost a snarl in his tones.

"He's not looked upon in that light in London," said the girl. Somehow, she knew not why, she wanted to defend him against her father's evident dislike.

"We live in a topsy-turvy age," said the Judge. "Do you know what the fellow did? He actually had the temerity to write, asking for my consent to pay his addresses to you! You did not know of this, of course?"

"No." The word escaped her almost mechanically, but she felt a warm flush pass over her face.

"I never knew of such impertinence! Fancy the fellow whom I sent to jail only a few years ago daring to think of such a thing! Had he come to me in person, I think I should have had him horsewhipped. And he ought to be horsewhipped, too. Why——" And then he laughed harshly.

Mary Bolitho did not reply. Somehow words did not come easily to her. All the same, a feeling of hot rebellion came into her heart.

"I answered him, of course," went on the Judge. "At first I thought of returning his letter without any remark whatever. Still, I sent him a few words which I think will have a beneficial effect on his colossal cheek!"

"What did you say?" asked the girl.

"I have a copy of it here somewhere," went on the Judge. "Would you like to see it?"

He took some papers from a drawer, and, having selected one, passed it to her. Mary Bolitho's face crimsoned as she read. She knew what Paul would feel. There was an insult in every line, almost in every word, veiled by conventional politeness, it is true, but still a note which, to a proud man, would wound like a poisoned knife.

"I had to put a stop to that sort of thing, of course. Just because he has made a little money, and has become a Member of Parliament, he has dared to—— But I say, Mary, this leads me on to something else; and, as we have an hour alone, it is well to have an understanding. How old are you?"

"Nearly twenty-one," she answered.

"I don't want to lose you, of course, but the time must come when I shall have to do so, and—of course, you'll not be surprised to know Ned Wilson was here two or three days ago, and I fancy he considers the matter settled. Do you know that he has spoken to me more than once?"

"But I gave him no encouragement," said the girl. "I have promised him nothing."

"No; but you have not repulsed him."

"You did not wish me to meet his appeal with a blank refusal," said the girl. "You said you had special reasons for that. But I gave him no encouragement. I do not want to marry him."

"But you do not dislike him; in fact, you told me you felt very kindly towards him."

"But not in that way, not in that way!"

"Mary, I want to be absolutely frank with you," said the Judge. "I wish you to marry young Wilson."

"Is that a command?" said the girl, and her voice was as cold as ice.

Her father looked at her steadily for a few seconds. He seemed to be on the point of resenting her tones, but presently decided not to do so.

"Let us put it this way," he said quietly, "Your marriage with Wilson would help me out of many difficulties, and save me from many troubles."

"I don't understand, father."

"You've always looked upon me as a rich man," said Judge Bolitho. "I'm not. I have been unfortunate in my investments, and while I was practising at the Bar I made a good income; but we have always lived up to it. You see, I have had to entertain a good deal; and then my Parliamentary career, though short, was very expensive. I know I have been very foolish, but I kept on that London house when I ought not to have done so. A man who keeps up two establishments should be rich. I thought I could afford it at one time, as my investments promised well. Still, everything has gone to pieces, and I have enormous liabilities. Had I known how things would have turned out I would never have accepted the judgeship. You see, the salary is but small compared with what I could make before. Within the next few months I have to find huge sums of money; and—well, when you are Wilson's wife, it'll be easy. But, for the life of me, I do not know another man who could help me out of my troubles! There, Mary; I am sorry to have to make such a confession, but it is best for you to know."

"Then I am to be sold!" said the girl. "Sold like a bale of cotton!"

"Don't put it in that way," said the father. "It's not fair. Besides, consciously or unconsciously, you have doubtlessly encouraged Wilson. You've repeatedly gone to the house, and you have known what gossips have said."

"I have refrained from contradicting gossip for your sake," replied Mary.

"Yes, I know. But you've always seemed pleased to see him, and as far as I can judge, always found pleasure in his society. He's a good fellow, too. I have made inquiries about him. He has a blameless record, and I am sure would make you a good husband. As for position—it is true he belongs to the manufacturing classes, but trade is no longer regarded as it used to be. Why, how many men in Ned's position have, during the last few years, obtained peerages! Among all our circle of friends in London there is not one who could do for us what Ned can do; and—Mary, as far as a father can promise for his daughter, I promised for you. I knew you liked him, and Ned regards it as settled."

"Have you fixed the date, too, and decided where the wedding's to take place?" And there was a world of scorn in her voice.

"Come now, Mary. Don't be unreasonable!"

"Unreasonable!" cried the girl. "Surely I have my own life to live. If I have been friendly with the Wilsons it has been at your request. You know that, during the election, I begged of you to stay at an hotel, instead of continually accepting their hospitality. But you practically commanded it, and so I went with you. But when you promise that I shall take a man like Wilson for my husband I think it's going too far. I should loathe his presence. I should shrink from him every time he came near me."

"But, Mary," said her father, evidently determined to keep his temper, "surely this is strange. You knew his feelings towards you years ago, and you never evinced any repugnance. You liked to spend hours upon hours with him at the time of the election. You have been seen with him a great deal. And when you have known that people have coupled your name with his, you've still consented to go to Howden Clough."

"As though a girl may not think differently at twenty-one from what she thinks at nineteen!" And her voice was tremulous with anger.

"Why should you think differently?" he asked. "You've seen no one else whom you like better?"

Mary was silent.

"Perhaps you would like to marry this fellow?" And her father placed his hand upon the letter which they had been discussing.

"A thousand times rather than him!"

"Mary, Mary!"

"A thousand times rather than him!" repeated the girl. "At least, Paul Stepaside cannot be despised."

"And what is there to despise about Wilson?"

"Oh, nothing!" said the girl. "But had he been placed in Mr. Stepaside's position years ago, what would he have been?"

"Well, think it over," said the Judge, rising. "In fact, if you care anything about me, you will do what I say. Surely you've not fallen in love with that fellow?"

"No," said the girl. "I've fallen in love with no one. But, father, can't you see, can't you understand what a girl feels? Marriage is, or ought to be, the most sacred thing in life, and to think that I am sold to such a man, because—because——"

"Oh, you'll think better of it by to-morrow," said Judge Bolitho as he left the room. "I know that young girls are silly. But remember, Mary, I am older and wiser than you, and I am thinking of your future as well as of my own." He left the room as he spoke, while Mary sat for a long time thinking deeply.

Every fibre of her being revolted against her father's proposal. She hated the thought of a marriage of convenience, and her heart hotly rebelled. All the same, she loved him greatly, and she knew that he must have been in dire straits or he would not have told her of his financial troubles. For Judge Bolitho was a proud man, and did not talk freely of such matters. Had it been simply because her father wished her to marry a rich man, she would never have given the question a second thought; but when he asked her to save him from what seemed like ruin, what could she do? She knew that a judge could not afford to get into financial difficulties, and knew that his honour must be, as far as the world is concerned, stainless. How, then, could she refuse? All the same, her whole nature rose in angry rebellion against such a thing.

Again she thought of what Paul Stepaside had said to her, and wondered whether, if she had never seen him, she would have been so angry at what her father had done. For hours that night she lay sleepless, trying to think of a plan whereby what seemed to her now as a calamity, and worse than a calamity, could be avoided.

When she came down the following morning her face was pale and almost haggard. Although she did not realise it, what Paul Stepaside had said to her had altered the whole outlook of her life. A heap of letters lay on the breakfast-table, but they were all for her father. A servant moved quietly round the room, arranging for their morning meal, while she stood listlessly looking over the garden. It was now nine o'clock, and her father always came punctually to the minute.

The clock on the mantelpiece had barely ceased striking when he came into the room. He kissed her perfunctorily, and then turned to his letters.

"Nothing important, Mary. Nothing important," he said, with an evident desire to be cheerful. "I think we're going to have a nice day, too, although we are so close to Christmas. But it's really too warm for this time of year."

For several minutes he evidently tried to make conversation, with but little success. The girl made no response to anything he said, but sat silently toying with the food that was placed before her.

The meal was nearly at an end when a servant came in bearing a telegram. The Judge took it from the salver and opened it almost indifferently, but a second later his eyes were wild with terror, and his hands trembled like an autumn leaf shaken with the wind.

"My God!" he exclaimed.

"What is it, father?"

He had risen from his seat. He did not speak. He seemed unable to answer her.

"What is it, father? Is someone ill—dying—what?"

And she snatched the wisp of thin paper from her father's hand.

"Ned murdered," she read. "Found early this morning with a knife in his heart. Stabbed from the back. Stepaside apprehended for murder. We're all distracted.—WILSON."

For a moment the words seemed to swim before her eyes. She could not grasp their purport; and yet, even then, that which filled her heart with terror was not the fact that Ned Wilson was dead but that Paul Stepaside was apprehended as his murderer. She knew of the long feud that had existed between them. She had heard a garbled account of Paul's attack on Wilson on the night when he had been elected a member for Brunford. She remembered all that rumour had said during her father's political contest in Brunford, knew that it was the talk of the town that Wilson had tried to ruin him. And Paul Stepaside was not a gentle man. He was strong, passionate—a man who in his anger would stop at nothing. Had Wilson, she wondered, aroused him to some uncontrollable fury? And had Paul, in his anger, struck him down? But a knife in his back, what did it mean? Paul could never do that, and yet——

She felt her head swim. It seemed to her as though her senses were leaving her. The vision of her father standing before her, pale-faced and horror-stricken, was a blurred one. Nothing was real except that ghastly terror was everywhere.

"Of course, it can't be true!" she said, at length.

"But don't you see, it's from his father? It was sent off this morning. I wonder—no, I wonder at nothing! My God! what shall I do?"

Even at this moment he seemed to be thinking more of himself than of the agony which must be realised in Brunford. It was not Ned Wilson's death which had whitened his face and caused him to tremble so. It was the thought of his own ruin. Unless he could meet his liabilities, he, an English judge, might be disgraced. Still, no; he thought he could manage everything. It only wanted time, and perhaps—well, things might not be so bad after all.

"But it can't be true!" repeated the girl. "Paul Stepaside could never do such a thing."

Judge Bolitho had mastered himself by this time. His eager quick mind had grasped all the bearings of the case. He remembered his last interview with young Wilson, and the arrangement which had been made. Yes, things were not so bad, after all. He could manage.

"Of course he did it!" was his answer. "Who else could there be? Stepaside was Ned's only enemy."

"What will the Wilsons feel?" said the girl. "The horror of it! But surely he could not be capable of it! He could not do it!"

"He's capable of anything devilish!" replied her father. "I felt it years ago, when I got him sent to prison. Of course, his name was cleared somewhat, but he was always an incipient criminal of the worst order—clever, if you like—ambitious, undoubtedly, but he belonged to the criminal class. And yet—— There, don't you see, 'Stepaside apprehended.' I thought he was too cunning for that, anyhow. I judged that a man of his order would have done the deed in such a way that the guilt would seem to belong to someone else. However, such fellows always overreach themselves."

"But he could not do it, father. He could not do it!" cried the girl.

"A man of Stepaside's character could do anything." He was almost calm now, and able to consider the bearings of the case judicially. "The thing has been growing for years. Event after event has prepared the way for it. Stepaside has never forgiven the Wilsons for sending him to prison. As you know, too, he has always hated me for that. Besides, Stepaside has always had the belief that Wilson has been trying to ruin him financially. You know what was said during the election? There have been rumours lately to the effect that this fellow and his partner have lost a good deal of money. Very likely he tried to fasten that on Wilson; and so in the end he murdered him. But we shall see! We shall see! There will be more detailed news presently."

"But he could never have done it!" and the girl reiterated it with weary monotony. It seemed to her as though she must fight for Paul Stepaside's life, as though she were called upon to proclaim his innocence.

"Who else could have done it?" said the Judge. "Don't you see, events must have pointed to him clearly, or they would never have dared to apprehend him. Besides, Ned Wilson hadn't an enemy in Brunford besides Stepaside; no other in the world as far as I know. The Wilsons have always been kind masters, always popular with their employees. Ned was a general favourite in the town. He's always borne a good character, too. During the years we've known him, there's never been a breath against him. Yes, it's all plain enough. But I must make inquiries, and find out."

He wandered round the room for more than a minute like one demented, while the girl sat watching him with a hard, fearsome look in her eyes.

"Do you remember what he said that night when I was elected for Brunford?" said the Judge presently. "Do you remember how he defied me, and proclaimed savagely that we should meet again, and always to fight? Well, it seems as though we shall meet again, but this time it will be as judge and criminal!"

"But, father," cried the girl, "you don't mean that you would ever sit in judgment on him?"

"It seems probable that it will be so," said Mr. Bolitho, after a moment's reflection. "Yes, and I will see that he shall have justice, too, full justice. The atheistic scoundrel! You can now see the logical outcome of the opinions of such men. He has vaunted for years that he believed neither in God nor Devil. He admitted no responsibilities to a Supreme Being, and when a man occupies such an attitude, what moral standard can he have? He hated Ned—poor Ned!—and then, having no standard of right before him, having no religion to sustain him, or to rebuke him, he became, in fact, what he was at heart—a murderer! You know what I have always said, Mary, about these socialistic fellows: Atheism lies at the root of it all! When a man ceases to believe in God he can be trusted for nothing. If religion is destroyed then all is destroyed!"

Each word seemed to ring like a knell in the girl's heart. It was as though judgment were passed already, and Paul Stepaside were condemned.

"But I must find out more about it," he went on. "Particulars will be flashing over a thousand wires by this time. I must send a wire to Howden Clough, too. I must try and find out the truth, the whole truth!"

And then he went out of the room, leaving Mary bewildered.



CHAPTER XIV

PAUL IS APPREHENDED FOR MURDER

"Paul Stepaside, I apprehend you for the murder of Mr. Edward Wilson!"

The words stunned him, and for the moment he scarcely realised their purport—but only for a moment. His mind asserted itself, and the meaning of what he had just heard came to him in all its grim reality.

"I have to inform you," said the sergeant of the police, "that anything that you may say to me may be used against you as evidence hereafter."

Paul looked at the man's face with a kind of curiosity. For the moment he seemed to be watching some drama of events with which he had nothing to do. The three policemen were of the ordinary well-fed and somewhat self-satisfied class of men. They acted upon order, without much intelligence. Paul hesitated a moment, and began to reflect deeply. He called to mind all the events of the last few hours, and his heart was filled with a great terror. That which, a little while before, had seemed only a dark shadow now assumed tangible shape.

"Very well, I will go with you," he said quietly. And then, again reflecting a moment, he continued: "But first of all I would like to speak to my mother."

"No," said the sergeant. "I can't allow you to go out of my sight."

"Think what you're saying, my man!" said Paul sharply.

"I can't help it, sir," replied the sergeant. "I'm only acting upon orders"; and he spoke humbly, apologetically. Even at that moment a passing stranger could not have helped noticing the difference between the men. The policemen were stolid, commonplace, the mere creatures of formula; the young man whom they had come to apprehend was, to the most casual observer, a man of mark. Neither of them could help feeling it. Pale of face, clear-cut features, black, flashing eyes, square forehead, a well-shaped head covered with black, glossy hair—tall, erect, well-dressed—it might seem as though he were their master and they his servants; and yet each realised that he was a prisoner, apprehended for murder.

"Very well, Broglin," said Paul quietly. "I see you take this thing seriously, and, of course, I do not wish to hinder you from doing your duty. But, at least, I have the right to know what authority you have for apprehending me?"

"I have a magistrate's warrant," replied Broglin, the sergeant.

"Yes; but they cannot have made out a warrant without some sufficient reason for so doing. To be charged with murder is a serious affair!"

"I know it, sir," replied Broglin. He had forgotten the part he had intended to play. He was altogether conquered by the stronger personality with which he had come into contact.

"Well, what are the grounds for apprehending me, then?"

"First," said the policeman, after a moment's reflection, "Mr. Ned Wilson was found dead this morning. This man here, Police-Constable Ashworth, was on his beat, not far from Howden Clough, when he found him lying face on the ground, the knife driven into his heart."

"Very sad, very terrible," said Paul. "But pray, what have I to do with that?"

"Of course, he started to work," said the constable, "and before long two men who are well known in Brunford, Abel Scott and James Thomas Dixon, stated that they saw you the previous night. They heard what took place between you; they saw Mr. Wilson knock you down with a heavy stick—you can't deny that; there's the wound on your temple now—and they heard you threaten to pay him out."

"Yes," said Paul, "but that's not enough on which to apprehend me."

"I have got the magistrate's warrant," said the policeman.

"Still, there must be something more. What is it?"

The policeman did not feel himself obliged to answer the question; but, still yielding to Paul's stronger presence, went on humbly: "Well, sir, of course the people at Howden Clough were knocked up at once, and a letter was discovered from you to young Master Edward, asking him to meet you."

"Still, that's not enough to apprehend me," said Paul.

"Maybe not," replied the constable. "But the knife which was buried in Mr. Ned Wilson's heart is known to be yours. It was seen on the desk in your office only yesterday."

Paul's lips became pale as these words were spoken. He knew it was damning evidence. He remembered the knife; he had reason to. "Very well," he said. "I will go with you; but, first of all, let me ring for a servant. No, I do not wish to move away from you farther than the bell here." He pressed a button as he spoke, and the servant, who had been listening, eagerly rushed to him.

"Mary," said Paul, "where's my mother?"

"I don't know," replied the girl. "I don't think she's up yet."

"Perhaps she's not well," said Paul. "Tell her for me that I have to go down into the town with these men, on a matter of business, but that she need be under no apprehension about me. Do you understand?"

"Yes, sir," replied the girl.

She had heard all that had been said. She knew that her young master was accused of murder, and in a way she believed it, but she could not treat him disrespectfully. There was something in his presence that made it impossible.

"The cab's outside," said Broglin. "I'd better put on the handcuffs, I suppose?"

Paul lifted his eyebrows. For the first time he fully realised what was taking place. All the ghastly disgrace, the terrible notoriety, became real to him. He knew that in a few minutes the whole town would be agog with excitement. His most intimate affairs would be discussed by every gossip in Brunford. Still, it could not be helped. The thing had to be gone through, and he must go through with it. But he must be careful not to betray himself or anyone else.

"There is no need of the handcuffs, Broglin," he said. "Still, do your duty."

"I am sorry," said the man. "But, you see, it's a serious affair, and—and——"

"Never mind," interrupted Paul, "put them on!"

He stepped into the cab, and the three burly forms of the policemen also went with him. The word was given to the driver, and a few minutes later he felt himself drawn towards the Town Hall.

"Shall I pull down the blinds, Mr. Stepaside?" said Broglin.

For a moment he was tempted to say "Yes," but only for a moment. It was no use. What would be the good of blinds? Every one would know. Even now he saw groups of people in the street, talking excitedly, while more than one looked curiously at the cab in which he rode. He had no doubt that reporters were near, eager to get a sensational account for the local papers. It would be a godsend to them. Paul Stepaside, Member of Parliament for Brunford, the man who had been spoken of as the idol of the people—he, whose one speech in the House of Commons had given him an almost national reputation, would now be notorious for one of the foulest deeds of which a man is capable. Still, he did not lose control over himself. He sat quietly, grimly, thoughtfully. There was that in his heart which he dared not reveal, and which at all hazards must be kept buried.

Presently the cab reached the Town Hall. A number of loafers were hanging around, while many had gone so far as to leave their work in order not to miss such a sight. It was not like an ordinary murder. Ned Wilson was the son of one of the most prominent men in the district; and Paul Stepaside, who had come to Brunford only a few years before, had become the most noted man in the town—and now it had come to this! A few minutes later he found himself in a cold, dark cell.

Of what he thought during the many hours he remained there it is not easy to tell, but that he felt the terror of it and the grim tragedy which pervaded everything can be easily realised. He was apprehended for murder, and he had been taken to that gloomy cell because of it. Of course, the reasons were plain enough, and as far as he could see, the police officials could not evade their duty. The long-standing feud between himself and Wilson was well known. Many threats had been uttered on both sides, while the quarrel which had taken place the previous night had evidently become public property. It seemed to him as though the hand of Fate had been at work in order to encompass his ruin. Of course, he was innocent of the deed. He had never struck Ned Wilson the blow which deprived him of life; nevertheless, every circumstance seemed to point to him; and, to crown all, it was his knife that had been found in Wilson's heart.

During the time he had been in the cab he had been thinking of the means he should use to clear himself, for he felt sure he could do so. Sitting alone in the cell, however, this became impossible. Such a terror as he had never known before filled his heart. He believed he knew who had committed this ghastly deed, but his lips must be sealed. He must not tell; he would rather die than tell of what he knew. His mother, out of love for him, and with a desire to be revenged upon the man who had been his enemy, had, in her mad passion, taken away his life.

He called to mind the incidents of the previous day. He remembered that, not long after he had arrived at his office that morning, his mother came to see him. She had come in by a side entrance and had found her way across a little piece of intervening yard, and had thus come to his office without the notice of others—at least, he hoped so; at any rate, it was quite possible that she should have done so. He wondered why she had come that morning, because she seemed to have nothing to say to him of importance. But while they were there, she had noticed a large knife lying upon his desk. It had been sent to him some time before by a man from South America, with whom he had done business. It was an ugly, murderous-looking weapon, and keen as a razor. He remembered her asking questions about it. Soon after he had been called out of the office, and when he returned he noticed that it was not lying on the table. He had paid no particular attention to this fact at the time, because his mind had been filled with other things. He had been trying to discover Ned Wilson's whereabouts, and he had been thinking of the things he meant to say to him.

During the afternoon he had forgotten all about his mother—he had reason to—but on his return, after he had told her all that had taken place, he remembered she seemed like one bereft of her senses. Every detail of the interview they had together came to him there, as he sat alone in the darkness, thinking and remembering. He called to mind every word she had spoken; and, in the light of after events, he thought he could plainly see their meaning. She had told him that he need not fear, that he should be avenged, that the desires of his heart should be realised. She had said something about Howden Clough. He had paid no particular attention to it then, as he fancied she was thinking of the place where he had quarrelled with Wilson; but now he knew.

He remembered going into his mother's bedroom and looking into the wardrobe where she kept her dresses. He had noted that it was nearly midnight, and her bed had been untouched. He called to mind, too, how presently he had left the house, determined to find her; how he had walked for hours in vain, not daring to make inquiries; and then, when presently he had returned, he had found her in her bedroom, evidently under the stress of a great emotion. There was a look of unholy joy in her eyes, and she had uttered wild words. He could not understand them then, but he understood now. His mother, wrought up almost to a pitch of insanity, roused to hatred of Wilson, not only because of what he had done to him but of what he had said about her, and madly thinking that she was going to help him, had gone out and committed this deed.

Of course, there were many things he could not explain; but the grim logic of facts stared him in the face, and they explained the unnameable fear which had come into his heart, the black shadow which had rested upon everything.

In a way, he was almost glad that they had apprehended him; and there in the silence he made a vow that, whatever should happen, he must see to it that no suspicion should ever rest upon her. Evidently she had not been in the mind of the officials at all. No one would suspect that she had not gone to bed when she left him. He was the only one who knew, and he must guard the secret at whatever cost.

He knew something of the course of the procedure which would be taken against him. Whether he were committed for trial or not—ay, whether any jury might find him guilty or not, he must say nothing, and do nothing, which should have the slightest tendency to connect her with this terrible thing.

The meaning of the tragedy itself did not appeal to him. The fact that Wilson, the man who through the long years had been his enemy—yes, and his rival, too—was dead did not appeal to him. The ghastliness of the tragedy was not what he thought about at all. Ever and always his mind reverted to his mother. She must be saved.

He had wondered the night before whether she were quite sane, and he wondered now; but that did not matter. Under no conceivable circumstances must the thoughts of men be directed to her!

But what should he do? He did not want to die; he hated the very thought of death. He remembered, too, the smile that Mary Bolitho had given him when last they met. He thought of the hopes she had inspired in his heart, of the dreams which had made the world beautiful. That was all over now. His mother had made everything impossible. But whatever she had done, she had done out of love for him, and he could not think harshly of her. Rather, in a way he could not understand, he loved her more than ever.

"Poor mother!" he said to himself. "It was all for love of me—all because she wanted to make me happy!"

Again he went over the whole miserable story, and tried to see whether he had not been mistaken in the suspicion which haunted his brain, but he saw no loophole anywhere. Who could have committed the deed but she? There was the fact of the knife, the fact of the wild threats she had uttered, the fact of her going out into the night alone, the fact that when he returned in the morning he had found her in an almost hysterical state of mind in her bedroom, the fact that his knife was buried in Wilson's heart. No, no; there could be no doubt about it. He did not love her the less, rather the more. He did not regard her as a murderess, and yet he felt sure it was she, even although he lay there apprehended for one of the foulest deeds man could commit.

The following morning Paul was brought before the magistrates. He knew that their duty was largely a matter of form. It was for them to justify the warrant that had been taken out against him, the warrant to arrest him on a charge of murder.

When he entered the justice room he was perfectly calm. He had mapped out his course of action to the minutest detail, and he had no doubt about the findings of the magistrates. Up to the present no coroner's inquest had been held on the body of Edward Wilson. That might not take place for another day or so. Certain preliminaries would have to be arranged first.

The court was thronged, and he afterwards learnt that the street outside was literally deluged with people who had tried to obtain admission. He had no doubt that thousands who had shouted with exultation when he became Member for Brunford now believed him to be a murderer; while others, with that morbid interest which is ever associated with crime, wanted to be present while he was tried. Every seat on the magistrates' bench was occupied; both the victim and the supposed murderer were well known.

Several witnesses were examined; the two men who had seen the quarrel between Paul and Wilson gave evidence of the very angry scene which took place. They described Wilson's rage, and told how he had struck Paul a very heavy blow on the head with a stick; and that Paul, on his recovery, had threatened to be revenged. The knife, also, which had been found in Wilson's body, was proved to be Paul's property, and had been known to be in his possession, while the long enmity between the accused and the murdered man was the talk of the town.

The results of the magistrates' sitting were, of course, inevitable. No bench of magistrates could do other than they were obliged to do. He had set up no defence nor made any statement. Paul Stepaside was remanded, and sent to Strangeways Gaol in Manchester to await the coroner's inquest.

By a little after six that evening Paul found himself again a prisoner in the gaol where he had previously spent six months. But this time all was different. On the former occasion, even although he knew he had been unjustly accused and more unjustly prosecuted, he was aware that much public sympathy was felt for him. He was regarded as a kind of hero among a large class of people. He felt sure, too, that in due course his name would be cleared, and even although the marks of his prison life would ever remain upon him, he would be outwardly very little the worse for what he suffered.

Now, however, the situation was worse. The sky was black and murky; the air was smoke-laden; the atmosphere seemed to be tense with gloom; but it was not blacker than the sky of his life. Everything was hopeless, and he could do nothing.

Hour after hour he sat in Strangeways Gaol, thinking and wondering. When the magistrates had remanded him for trial, he had shown no sign, but had stood proud, calm, erect, and had shown no perturbation whatever at their judgment. It might have been the most commonplace thing imaginable. But now that he was alone in his cell everything was different. He saw what it all meant, and he knew, too, where the pathway in which he had elected to tread would lead.

He was not a coward, and he had steeled his heart against the worst. Death he did not fear; but even although he believed that to no man who was dead was there any life hereafter, and, as a consequence, he would know nothing of what took place, he dreaded the thought of disgrace. He knew that throughout the whole land his portrait would be printed in a thousand papers. He knew he would be discussed by people whom he despised. He knew that his name would be a byword and a hissing in the country, while his mother—— But no, he would not think of her.

And what of his hopes? What of his ambitions? What of his life's work? All seemed to be at an end. He called to mind what his mother had said to him years before on the Altarnun Moors. "Find your father," she had said. "Clear your name from reproach, and be revenged for all he did." And now he would have to die, with his work unaccomplished. In spite of everything, he had failed to find his father, failed to find the slightest clue to his whereabouts. Thus, as far as that went, his life's work would be unaccomplished. He thought of his career, the career which he was just beginning to make brilliant. He had become a Member of Parliament. He had risen from obscurity to what was the promise of fame. He had been invited to the houses of the rich and great. His name had been spoken of as one that would have a great future, and now all that was at an end.

But more than all this, he thought of Mary Bolitho. He remembered the words she had spoken to him on the night of the gathering in London, remembered the flash of her eyes, the smile on her lips. What if her father had written an insulting note of refusal? It weighed nothing with him. He had sworn to win her, and he believed—yes, he believed that he could have done so. But now all that was impossible, too. Of course, she had heard of what had taken place, heard of the accusation which had been laid against him. She would look on him as a murderer; yes, and as the perpetrator of a gross, vulgar murder, too. What would she think of him? Yes, that maddened him. The rest seemed small in comparison with this, and he knew what would take place, too. Next there would be a coroner's inquest, then another meeting before the magistrates, and then he would have to meet judge and jury at the Manchester Assizes. Every detail of his life would be discussed, no matter how sacred it might be, while the vilest thoughts and feelings would be attributed to him by a gaping, vulgar crowd, and he must suffer it. And this was to be the end of life. A few weeks more and the end would come, and he, Paul Stepaside, who had such hopes of a brilliant future, would end his life on the scaffold. A hangman's cord would be around his neck, and he would drop into Eternity, reviled and spurned despite his innocence.



CHAPTER XV

THE CORONER'S INQUEST

The next day he was brought back to Brunford again, this time to be present at the coroner's inquest. A prison van took him from Strangeways Gaol to the station, and thence he went to the town in which, to use the words of one of the morning papers, "he had won an almost unique position." He dreaded this inquest almost more than he dreaded anything else, for he knew that the inquiry which would be made would not be hedged in by so many formulae as those which are associated with the Assizes. The business of this coroner's inquest would not be to condemn a murderer or even to apprehend a murderer, but officially to decide upon the means whereby Ned Wilson came to his end, and, as a consequence, anyone could elect to give evidence, and anyone could tell not only of what he was sure, but of what he believed. All sorts of irrelevant matter might be adduced here—gossip, suspicion, unsupported statement. All belonged to the order of the day. He knew what Brunford was. On the whole the people were kind-hearted and well-meaning. Many of them might be coarse and somewhat brutal, but on the whole they were people he loved. But he knew their morbid interest in crime, their love of gossip; knew that they were eager to hear and to discuss every bit of scandal which might be adduced.

The place in which the inquest was held was crowded. The jurymen who had been sworn had examined the body according to the dictates of the law, and had now met to decide as to the cause of his death. A number of people were there, ready to give evidence or to state what they knew or believed concerning the matter. All were eager, and many enjoyed the situation as they had not enjoyed anything for years.

"I would not miss being here for a week's work," said one man to another.

"I see George Preston is over there. He looks pale, does George. It must be an awful blow to him!"

"Dost believe Stepaside did it?"

"I don't know. I never thought him to be that sort of chap; but then, you know, he and Ned Wilson have been at it for years."

"I can't see that the motive is sufficient," said another. "What motive had he for killing Ned Wilson? Here he wur in Parliament, and making a name for hissen. Is it likely that for a bit of spite he'd kill a chap in that way? Besides, he's fair clever, is Stepaside. Would he be such a fooil as to kill him wi' a knife as was known to be his own?"

"No; but when a man is in a passion he thinks o' nowt. He just becomes like a savage. And Paul always had a bit of a temper."

"Ay, but he were a quiet chap, too, and he must ha' known that he'd ha' been suspected. I can't believe that he would be such a fooil—and yet, as tha ses, nobody knows."

At length the proper business of the inquest commenced. The coroner, who was a local doctor, sat grave and disturbed. He knew Paul well, and the two had often fought side by side on public questions. The jurymen, too, although they in a way enjoyed their position, were sad at heart. Nearly every one of them knew Paul and respected him. It was terrible to them to see him before them there as a prisoner, and yet they could not help admiring him. He was carefully dressed, and he had seen to it that his clothes were brushed, and that his linen was spotless. Not by a tremor of his lips or by the movement of a muscle did he show what he felt. Pale, haughty, calm, dignified, he stood before them as though he were a mere spectator of a scene which he despised.

The case was taken in the ordinary way. The first to give evidence was old Mr. Edward Wilson, the father of the murdered man. Even Paul almost pitied him as he saw him. His face was haggard and drawn. He who had been usually so florid looked as pale as ashes. His cheeks were baggy and his voice was unnatural. He identified the murdered man as his son. He confessed to his having returned that night after his quarrel with Paul, when he had seemed much disturbed. Two letters awaited him, both of which he had read and then destroyed by throwing them into the fire. About nine o'clock he went out, saying that he was going to his club. Since that time he had never been seen alive. Where he had gone he could not tell; certain it is he never came home again. He told of the feud which had existed between his son and Paul Stepaside. He knew that Paul hated the murdered man with an intense hatred, and had been known on many occasions to threaten him with violence. He adhered strictly to the truth, and yet that truth was so coloured by his own feelings and prejudices that it was evident he had no doubt about who killed his son. He enlarged upon the fact that, as far as he knew, his son had not a single enemy in the world besides Paul Stepaside, and certainly no other had a sufficient motive to murder him.

After this came the statement of the policeman. He had been walking on his beat about seven o'clock, and had seen the body of a dead man lying in a lane not far from Howden Clough. He quickly identified it as that of Mr. Edward Wilson. He described the position in which it lay. He told of the knife which was driven through the body. He immediately reported the matter to his superiors, whereupon the usual steps were taken. A doctor was summoned, who had made an examination, and so forth.

After the constable's statement the doctor gave his evidence. He had no doubt as to the cause of death. He had died as a result of a knife that was driven through his heart. The blow was struck from behind. As far as he could judge, Mr. Edward Wilson had been murdered between half-past four and five that same morning. While the doctor was speaking there was a deathly silence in the room. It seemed as though there were another nail driven into the scaffold on which Paul Stepaside was to hang. Up to now Paul's name had been seldom mentioned, and yet his was the personality which dominated everything. Eyes were constantly turned towards him. Whispered remarks were often heard concerning him. All that the magistrates had asked at their meeting was remembered. The story of the past became vivid again.

Presently the two men who had watched the quarrel between Paul and Ned Wilson told their story. It may be that they did not adhere strictly to the letter of the truth. Perhaps they were anxious to make an impression at the gathering. Certain it is that, in their own rough way, they made it almost certain that Paul was the murderer.

"You say," said the coroner to one of them, who was more gifted with speech than the other, "that you saw the deceased and Paul Stepaside quarrelling?"

"Ay, I did. I were just going down t' lane wi' my mate here, and I heard a sound of voices. It wur gettin' dark, but I could see plainly who they were. We wur a bit curious, and so we both on us waited and listened. They did not see us."

"Did you hear what was said?"

"Weel, nowt what you would call anything connected like, but it were easy to see as 'ow Stepaside were threatenin' Wilson. They were both on 'em pale wi' passion."

"Was Stepaside armed at the time?"

"No—at least, as far as I could see, he'd nowt in 'is hands, but more'na once he lifted his fist as though he would strike Mr. Wilson."

"You say you heard no connected speech between them?" said the coroner.

"Not much," replied the man; "but we heerd summat."

"Well, tell us what you heard."

"I heerd Wilson say to Stepaside, 'You spy! You sneaking hound!' And then I heerd Stepaside tell Wilson he must do summat, but what it was I couldna rightly say. It seemed to be summat about a letter."

"Well, and what then?"

"Well, then Wilson was in a fair fury, and he spoke loud."

"And you heard what he said?"

"Ay, I heerd."

"What did he say?"

"Well, he insulted Stepaside's mother. I cannot remember the exact words, but he said she were no better'na she ought to be, in fact that she were—I'd rather write it down, maaster," he said.

"And after that?" said the coroner presently.

"And after that I saw Stepaside look murder. No one could help seeing it. His great black een just shot fire, and I thought he was going to knock Wilson down, but he didn't. He just stopped hissen, and he only said, 'Very well, then, I shall do what I say.' Upon that he turned on his heel to walk away, but he had not gone more than six steps when Wilson lifted that stick of his with an ivory handle to it, and struck Stepaside a smashing blow on th' head. I thought first of all he had killed him, for he fell on t' ground like a lump o' coll, and lay there for maybe a minute, while Wilson stood over him."

"And then?" asked the coroner.

"Presently he picked himself up. 'I might have expected this,' he said after a bit. 'It's a coward's blow, a kind of blow such as you always strike. But remember, I always pay my debts, always; even to the uttermost farthing!' And then he went away without another word, and I shall never forget the look on his face as he did go away."

"And after that?" asked the coroner.

"After that I know no more," replied the man.

The question of the knife was then considered, and there were several who testified that this knife belonged to Paul. It had been sent to him from abroad by a man with whom he did business, and his partner, George Preston, admitted that he had often seen it lying on Paul's desk.

During this evidence it was noticed that Paul listened intently. It seemed as though he were specially interested. Never once did he relax his attention. It might seem as though he regarded this as the most important piece of evidence. During the earlier part of the examination he had seemed almost careless, but now every faculty was on the alert, every nerve was in tension.

"Did Stepaside ever carry this knife with him?" asked the coroner.

"Not to my knowledge," replied Preston.

"Has he ever discussed the knife with you?"

"Well, I can hardly say that," he replied. "But when it was sent I remember him saying that it was a murderous weapon, and it would be easy to kill a man with it. It was as sharp as a razor, too."

"Do you know whether he had it on the day in question?"

"I only know that it was on the office desk that day."

"Do you know of anyone who entered the office that day who would be likely to take it?"

"No," replied Preston; "I know of no one. You see, since we took the new mill my partner had one office and I had another. Of course, we were constantly going into each other's offices, but each of us regarded the other's room as private."

"Is your office situated close to his?"

"Not far away."

"Could anyone go into his office without your hearing or knowing?"

"Yes, I suppose so, but I do not think it likely."

"And you say you know of no one who entered Stepaside's room that day?"

"No, I can remember no one."

"Were you in it that day yourself?"

"Yes. We always meet and discuss matters every morning when I do not go to Manchester."

"And you met that morning?"

"Yes."

"Did you happen to see the knife?"

"Yes, I saw it lying on his table."

"Was Stepaside in the habit of locking his office before he went out?"

"Always. He was very particular about that. He thought he had reason to be."

"What reason?"

"Well, he believed that we had enemies. I do not wish to enlarge upon it now, but it's well known in the town."

This led to a number of questions wherein Paul's relationships with the murdered man were freely discussed. Witness after witness gave evidence of this. There could be no doubt about it. A long-standing quarrel had existed between the late Edward Wilson and Paul Stepaside.

"There's one further question I would like to ask of Mr. Preston," said the coroner presently. "It seems to me of very vital importance. A knife known to belong to Paul Stepaside was found driven into the body of the deceased. The question I wish to ask is this: Do you think it possible that anyone could have obtained this knife without Stepaside's knowledge and consent?"

"I am afraid not," and Preston spoke the words with a kind of gasp.

"And you, who were in your room most of the day, have no knowledge of anyone going into his office who would be likely to take it?"

"I have no knowledge. Indeed, my partner left at midday, and I do not remember him coming to the place at all afterwards."

At the close of this evidence Paul gave a sigh, seemingly of relief. This might seem strange, for every word that had been spoken had seemed to fasten the guilt more securely on himself. Presently he was asked whether he wished to make a statement, and again all present were struck by his demeanour. His face was very pale, and his eyes had a peculiar light in them, but otherwise he showed no excitement or fear. His voice was perfectly steady; his lips did not quiver; his hands did not tremble. The evidence against him was as black as night. Indeed, no one seemed to have any doubt as to the finding of the jury—but he did nothing to clear himself. It is true, he declared emphatically that he had no hand in killing the deceased man; he also said that when he had last seen the knife it was lying on his office desk, but he made no endeavour to show how it might have been taken away without his knowledge.

He was also just as reticent about his whereabouts on the night of the murder. During the examination of the other witnesses, especially that of his partner, he had seemed perturbed and anxious, but directly that was over he became calm and almost indifferent.

If there was one ray of light in the whole of the ghastly business, it was that Mary Bolitho's name had never been mentioned. The truth was, no one knew of his dreams concerning her. No one fancied that he had ever given her a thought. It was generally believed in the town that she was to become the wife of young Edward Wilson, but the thought that the deceased man had a rival in Paul was outside the realm of their calculation. Consequently, the words which he had dreaded were never spoken.

The inquest came to an end presently, and the jury found what had been a foregone conclusion throughout the day. Their verdict was that the deceased man had been wilfully murdered, and that the murderer was Paul Stepaside.

Everyone felt and knew that this was but another preliminary step; everyone knew that the trial was yet to be held, and yet no one doubted but that this, as far as Paul Stepaside was concerned, was another step towards the gallows. Many had hoped with a great hope that some evidence would be adduced whereby a shadow of suspicion might be thrown on someone else, but none was forthcoming. Every hand seemed to point to Paul Stepaside. When the jury gave their verdict, even although all knew it was not final, a great sobbing sigh was heard. The air seemed to be charged with calamity. The faces of many were white, and tears flowed from the eyes of many unused to weeping.

"Thou'st hanged tha partner," said one man to George Preston. "Thine was the most damning evidence of th' lot."

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.

"He'll have a weary Christmas," remarked an old weaver as the prison van went towards the station. "I wish I could send him summat to make it a bit brighter, but what can us do?"

"At ony rate, we can pray for his soul."

A little later Paul was brought back to Brunford again. He had to appear a second time before the magistrates, who, after another examination, committed him for trial to the Manchester Assizes.

"What'll happen to him now?" asked someone after the committal.

"He'll have to stay in Strangeways Gaol in Manchester until the Assizes are held," was the reply.

"When will that be?"

"It may be weeks; it may be months. But I expect it'll be held somewhere about the end of January." It was a young lawyer who said this, who was hoping that the trial would mean some work for him.

"Poor Paul!" was the response. "I wonder how his mother is takin' it?"



CHAPTER XVI

AWAITING THE TRIAL

Of course, the newspapers were full of the accounts of the murder of young Edward Wilson. The two Brunford papers were filled with practically nothing else. The Manchester dailies devoted several columns to it. Not only were the Wilsons an important family in Lancashire, but Paul Stepaside was a Member of Parliament, who had lately made a speech of note in the House. Even the London dailies gave a large amount of space to it; and on the morning following the coroner's inquest Mary Bolitho felt as though someone had struck her a blow, when, on the first page of the newspaper which had been sent to her father's house, she saw the staring headlines: "Brunford Murder. Coroner's Inquest. Paul Stepaside, M.P., committed for trial." She had no breakfast that day, but went straight to her room, where she spent hours reading and re-reading the reports given. Everything pointed to the fact that Paul was guilty, and yet she felt sure he was not. The shock of Ned Wilson's death, of course, had been very great, and she had written a letter of condolence to the family. But even her horror at the murder was nothing compared with her feelings as she realised that Paul Stepaside, even at that moment, lay in Strangeways Gaol. She remembered him as they spoke together the last time they had met. She called to mind her admiration of him, and reflected that, although he had been brought up among the working classes, his appearance gave no suggestion of it. Perfectly dressed, perfectly calm, and possessed of that savoir faire which seems to be innate with a certain class of people, Paul was infinitely removed from the class of men with whom one associates criminal deeds. She knew enough of law, and had talked sufficiently often with her father, to know how absolutely false circumstantial evidence may be, even although it seems absolutely conclusive; and now, despite the fact that her father seemed to have no doubt about Paul's guilt, her mind simply refused to accept it.

He had never done the deed. He simply could not! If she were asked her reason for this she could not have given one, only she knew—she was absolutely sure.

Like many others, too, she tried to think who could have been guilty of the murder. The fact that young Ned Wilson was dead was, of course, beyond doubt. Someone must have killed him. Who was it? Her father had repeatedly declared that, excepting Paul, Ned had not an enemy in the world. He had lived all his life in Brunford; he was known to the people. His father was a large employer of labour, and was regarded as a good master. Ned lived on good terms with everybody. Who, then, could have killed him? Of course, every finger pointed to Paul—the long feud, the repeated quarrels, the injuries which Wilson had often done to him, the blow on his head on the very night of the murder, and Paul's threat. Then, again, there was his refusal to give an account of his actions between midnight and six in the morning—and, last of all, the knife acknowledged to be the property of Paul, with which the deed was done. The chain seemed complete; there did not appear to be a loophole anyhow, and yet she was certain Paul had never committed the deed. Was it likely that a clever man such as he, even if he had wanted to commit murder, would have used such brutal means? Would he have left behind him the knife which must inevitably be traced to him? The thing was impossible! Paul could not have done it. Then she remembered the strong, passionate nature of the man, the flash of his eyes, his grim resolves, and her mind became torn by conflicting thoughts. Why did he persist in being silent? Was there someone whom he desired to shield, and, if so, who was it? And again and again there were the old haunting questions.

When the news was presently announced that the Brunford magistrates had committed him to the Manchester Assizes for wilful murder, her father was in the room.

"You've seen this, Mary?" he said, and he noted how pale her face was, noted, too, the dark rings round her eyes.

She nodded.

"I haven't had time to go to Lancashire," continued the Judge. "Of course, I wrote a long letter of sympathy to the Wilsons. I hope you've also done this?"

"Yes," she replied.

"Poor Ned! He was a good lad," said the Judge. "To think that such a life as his should have been cut short by that atheistic villain!"

"Are you sure it was he?" she could not help saying.

"Nothing is sure in such cases," replied the Judge. "But I have read every line of the evidence. I've had full reports sent to me from Brunford, and I have carefully weighed everything. Besides, you see, I know the history of both men, and I know the motives likely to be at work. Unless something comes out at the trial which utterly alters the impression made by what has previously taken place, nothing can save him. Any jury in the world would condemn him!"

Her heart became like lead as he spoke, but she remained silent.

"Poor Mary!" continued the Judge. "Of course, you feel Ned's death keenly, and it must be ten times harder for you to bear than if it had taken place in the natural way. Talk about not believing in capital punishment after this! Why, the people would tear him to pieces if they could get hold of him!"

"What do you mean?" asked the girl, and her voice was hoarse as she spoke.

"From what I can gather, public feeling against him is terribly strong," went on Judge Bolitho. "It seems that the news has got afloat that he had been planning this for months."

"It's a lie!" cried the girl.

"What?" asked the Judge in surprise.

"It cannot be true. I saw him only a few days before the murder. He is not capable of such a thing, father."

The Judge laughed sarcastically. "I ought to be the last man to prejudge a case," he said. "But when you talk about such a thing being impossible I cannot help being amused. Besides, no one can look at his face without realising the streak of the savage that is in him. He always looked like an incipient criminal. Anyhow, we shall see, and justice must be done."

Christmas passed away and the New Year came, and there was nothing further in the newspapers about Paul Stepaside save that he was lying in Strangeways Gaol in Manchester awaiting the coming Assizes. Early in the New Year, however, Mary noticed that her father's face looked strangely perturbed. He was very silent, and seemed very anxious.

"What is the matter?" she asked. "Aren't you well?"

"Oh, yes, quite well," he replied.

"What is it, then?"

"I don't like it," said the Judge. "As far as I can see, I shall have to try Stepaside. I thought I should have escaped it, but for some reason or other Leeson has dropped out, and I am the next on the rota. There is not sufficient reason, either, why I should raise any objection, and, after all, the jury will have to decide his guilt, not I. Besides, if I did, it would cause a certain amount of comment. Still, I don't like it." And it was easy to see, by the look on his face, that he meant what he said. Much as he had always disliked Paul Stepaside, he shrank from having to give judgment against him—and that, he seemed to believe, would be inevitable.

"It is settled," he said a day or two later. "I have to go to Lancashire next week."

"Father," said the girl, "let me go with you, will you?"

"Go with me, Mary? Surely you do not mean to say that you wish to stay at the Wilsons'?"

"Oh, no," she cried quickly. "But I should like to be near you. There are good hotels both in Manchester and Liverpool, and I dread the thought of staying here alone."

"The Gordons have invited you to go to their place. Why not accept the invitation?"

"I don't wish to," she replied, "Let me go with you."

"Come, come, Mary. I shall begin to think that you are getting morbid. This vulgar affair can be nothing to you, after all. Of course, I know you feel Wilson's death keenly, but why—why——"

"Don't ask me any questions, father. I want to go with you. I want to be near to you."

"Oh, very well," he replied. "If you can find any pleasure in being in Lancashire at this time of the year by all means come. But I think you'll repent of it."

A few days later, however, she started upon the journey northwards with her father, knowing that, according to all probability, he would be the judge who would try Paul Stepaside for murder.

Meanwhile the accused man lay in Strangeways Gaol. Up to the present he had been treated with leniency, if not kindness. First of all, according to the English law, every man is regarded as innocent until he's proved to be guilty, and as yet this had not taken place in Paul's case. He was allowed to see whom he would. If he wished lawyers to come and consult with him with regard to the method of his trial, or to arrange for counsel, it was in his power to do so. He could also see friends. Of course, he was held in strict confinement, but until the word of doom was spoken certain privileges were allowed to him which would be impossible afterwards. As a matter of fact, too, many people came to see him. An ambitious young solicitor from Brunford, a friend of Paul's, came to urge him to be defended and to offer his services. "You and I, Stepaside," he said, "have known each other for years. Won't you allow me to prepare your defence?"

"No," said Paul.

"But why?"

"Because I have none."

"Do you mean to say, then, that you're going to plead 'guilty'?"

"I don't say that—no, I shall plead 'Not guilty.'"

"Then will you allow yourself to be undefended?"

"I choose to defend myself," he replied.

"But, my dear fellow, you minimise your own chances that way!"

"Nevertheless, what defence is made on my part I shall make myself," he replied.

The young solicitor looked at him in astonishment. "You must be mad!" he said. "It isn't as though you can't afford it."

"No, it's not a matter of money," said Paul.

"You're going to plead 'Not guilty,' you say?"

"Yes."

"Then what is the line of defence you're going to offer?"

"That will be seen when the time comes."

"Come now, Stepaside, do be reasonable. I know a man, perhaps the most brilliant K.C. on the Northern Circuit. Won't you let me bring him to you?"

Paul shook his head. "No," he said. "I want to see no one."

"No one?"

"No, no one for that purpose. I shall make my own defence in my own way."

The interview which affected him most during the first weeks after he had been committed for trial was that between himself and his mother. He had been sitting alone for hours, brooding over the terrible position in which he found himself placed, and, naturally, his mind reverted to Brunford and to its many associations.

"She has never been to see me," he reflected. "Never once. Well, after all, perhaps it is better not. If she does come I must be very careful. I was afraid she might have been subpoenaed as a witness at the inquest, but we were both spared that. It would have been too terrible. Still, I am afraid they will insist on her being here at the Assizes. I wonder, I wonder——"

A few seconds later he felt as though his heart had grown cold within him. He heard his mother's voice as she spoke to a warder; and a little later they were together. The light was very dim, but still, he could see the ravages which the last few days had made in her appearance. During the last few months Paul had reflected on his mother's looks. She had been growing young and handsome. Her face had been ruddy and free from marks of care. In spite of everything, the life with her son had renewed her youth. Her hair was still black and glossy; her form unbent. It was no wonder—she was still but young in years, and the effects of the tragedy of her girl-life had begun to wear away. Many a one in the town had remarked what a handsome woman Paul Stepaside's mother was, and she, although she professed to care nothing for her appearance, could not help being pleased. Now, however, all was changed. The last few days seemed to have added years to her life. The ruddy hue of health was gone. Her face had become almost ashen, while in her eyes was a haunted look. Paul was almost startled as he caught sight of her, although he said nothing. But he drew his own conclusions, nevertheless.

Neither of them spoke for some time. The woman's arms were round her son, and her cheek close to his, and that was all. She did not sob convulsively as one would have expected under such circumstances; she did not cry out in agony, rather she appeared like a dumb, half lifeless creature, while in her eyes was a look of mute inquiry.

"My poor boy! My poor boy!" she said presently.

"It's all right, mother."

"I thought we'd come to the end of our troubles. I thought the new day was dawning," she said. "I thought that God was in the heavens after all, and that He had used me, a poor, weak woman, instead of a strong man like you. But, oh, Paul, my boy, my boy!"