"Then you can never forgive me?" said the judge, and there was a world of pleading in his voice.

"If your lordship will just think a moment," said Paul. "You have asked me to try and understand you; will you try and understand me? I am here in a prison cell, accused of murder. Possibly I shall be hanged—although I mean to fight for my life," this he added grimly, with set teeth and flashing eyes. "I am twenty-five years of age, and it is not pleasant to think that one's life shall end in such a way! Let me remind you of something, Mr. Justice Bolitho, and, in reminding you of it, perhaps you will see that I have no reason to play the part of the yielding and affectionate son. I was born in a workhouse. My only name has been the name given to me because my mother was found lying near a little hamlet called Stepaside. I was educated a pauper. The parish paid the expenses of my learning a trade. When I was seventeen my mother told me the story of her life, told me of my father's villainy. What such a story would do for most men I don't know, but this it did for me: it robbed me of everything most dear. It killed in me all faith. It destroyed in me all belief in God and Providence. When I went out into the world it seemed to me that the only legacy I had was a legacy of hatred for the man who had robbed my mother of her youth and of her honour, and me of my boyhood and of all the things that make youth beautiful. I need not tell you my story since. You know it too well. But, if I am hard and bitter, you have made me what I am. Consciously or unconsciously, yours has been the hand that has moulded me. Do you wonder, then, that I cannot respond to this appeal for filial affection—that I cannot clasp my arms round your neck like a hero in a fourth-rate melodrama? When you rob a man of his faith in human nature and God, you rob him of everything, you dry up the fountains of tenderness."

For a moment there was a silence between them, and then Paul went on: "But where's my mother now? You say you saw her last night. What did she tell you? What did you tell her? Do you know what has become of her?"

"I scarcely know what I did tell her," replied the judge. "I was so overwhelmed when she told me that you were my son that I was scarcely capable of thinking. Besides, she seemed in no humour for asking questions. She felt very bitterly towards me, naturally, and my mind was numbed; I could not think."

"Perhaps you will tell me?" said Paul presently.

"I will tell you everything that you ask, my boy."

"Then tell me why you masqueraded in Scotland under a false name? Tell me why you left my mother on the day you married her."

"Douglas Graham was my name," he replied. "I had no thought of masquerading."

"Then why have you become Bolitho?" asked Paul. "My mother told me that on the night of your wedding day you read a letter which had been given to you which seemed to surprise you very much. Tell me the meaning of it."

The judge gave no answer, and again he rocked to and fro in his misery. "Paul, my son," he said. "I cannot!"

Again the two men looked at each other steadily. Paul's mind was active again now.

"You know what your confession meant this morning," he said at length. "You declared to the court that I was your son, your lawful son; that my mother was your lawful wife. But what of Mary? Tell me that. You know what I wrote to you concerning her. I asked you to allow me to try and win her as my wife, not knowing of the relations which existed between us—not knowing anything. You know, too, the cruel reply you sent to me—a reply which contained an insult in every line, in every word. But let that pass. If my mother is your lawful wife, what of Mary's mother? Will you answer me that?"

Still the judge stood with bowed head. It seemed as though he had been struck a death-blow. More than once he essayed to speak, but no words passed his lips. It seemed an eternity to Paul before the judge spoke again.

"At least I tried to do you justice, Paul," he stammered. "I tried to do—that is, I tried to proclaim to the world that your mother was a lawful wife."

"Yes," cried the young man, and his voice was hard with anger. "And do you not see what it means? It means that Mary's name is tarnished. For your sin and your punishment I do not care so much; but what of her? Think of the stories which gossiping tongues will be telling about her just now! Think of the sneering lies, the scornful gibes which will be uttered about her! My disgrace did not matter so much; I had become used to it. But what of her?"

"Stop, stop, Paul! In pity stop! Great God! Yes, it's true; but I did not realise this."

"Then the name of Bolitho is assumed," said Paul. "It is not your true name at all. Will you tell me the meaning of this?"

"I cannot," said the judge. "I know what you must be thinking, Paul, but I cannot do it."

"Then," cried the young man angrily, "it was cruel to her to make the confession you did this morning. I would a thousand times rather suffer myself—ay, and see my mother suffer, too—than see her suffer. And this is what you've done. Had you not better go away and leave me alone? Had you not better recant what you said this morning, and say you spoke while your mind was unhinged?"

"Paul," said the judge, "will you let me sit down on your couch here? I realise the truth of every word you have said, although you have spoken cruelly. Perhaps I did wrong in coming to you; but I could not help it. Believe me, my son, much as you have suffered, it is nothing to what I suffer at this moment."

There was no whine in his voice, no appeal to pity. It was a simple statement of fact, and for the first time Paul had a feeling in his heart which he could not understand. After all, the man before him was his father, and his haggard face, his bent form, his bloodshot eyes, all told of the agony through which he was passing.

"Son," said the judge, "some time, at all events, I hope I may be able to make known the things which you have asked, but I cannot trust myself to try and do so now. Will you let me be quiet for a few minutes, my boy? I want to think. And will you try and forget this part of the story?"

The judge sat down on the couch, while Paul, leaning against the prison wall, watched him. Minute after minute passed away, and then the judge spoke again.

"Paul," he said. "Are you guilty of this murder?"

"I would rather not discuss it with you," said Paul.

"My son," said the judge, "you do not believe what I have told you. To you my words are a mockery. But I love you like my own life. Even now, if I could die in your place I would be glad. At any rate I may be able to help you. Mary doesn't believe you are guilty. She told me so last night. I can speak freely of this now, for I am no longer the one who shall sit in judgment on you, and I want to help you."

Paul looked at his father and wondered what was passing in his mind; wondered, too, how much he knew. He could not tell him of his suspicions, could not even hint at the fact that he believed his mother was guilty of the murder for which he was accused. He knew of Judge Bolitho's reputation; knew, too, that he would eagerly fasten upon everything he learnt and follow it to its logical sequence.

In spite of everything, however, a change seemed to be coming over their relationship. The feeling of half an hour before had somewhat passed away. The sensations caused by their first meeting had become less powerful.

"Whatever else I can do, Paul," said the judge, "I want to help you in this. Can't you trust me?"

Paul was silent. He was afraid to answer directly, afraid lest the haunting fear in his heart would become known. Then, in a way he could not understand, he found himself talking with his father more freely, found himself telling something of his life in Brunford, until by and by he realised that he had been subjected to a close examination. It seemed to him as though it had become a battle of wits between him and his father; and although he was angry with himself afterwards, he knew he had disclosed many things which he had sworn should never pass his lips. Still, he had said nothing definite. He had never even hinted at the possibility of his mother's guilt.

"If you could only trust me!" said the judge at length. "If you would tell me exactly what happened, I might even yet be able to save you."

"Do you not believe me guilty, then?" said Paul.

"Mary does not," replied the judge.

"I know that," was Paul's answer. "And for her sake I mean to fight for my own life."

"Even although you did this thing?"

"Even if I did it!"

"But have you any evidence to add that shall tell in your favour—anything that will destroy the impression which has been made?"

"Do you believe they will hang me if I don't?"

"I mean to say, as far as circumstantial evidence is concerned, the case is terribly black against you, and the jury must act upon evidence given. And, oh, Paul, Paul! Can't you realise? Can't you understand what I feel? If I must tell the truth, one of the reasons I decided to say what I did this morning in the court was that I might be free to try and save your life. Will you not tell me what is in your mind?"

Paul shook his head. "You have wormed a great many things out of me," he said, "which I did not mean to tell; still, I think I have been a match for you."

"Don't you realise, Paul, what your life is to me? Can't you understand what the knowledge that you are my son means to me? Don't you believe that I would give everything I possess, everything I am, to bring you happiness? Oh! I know what you feel, and I do not wonder at it. I know, too, what you must be thinking about me now, and I cannot help myself. But, Paul, if there's a possibility, let me save you. Tell me the truth—the whole truth!"

"You would not thank me for doing so," replied Paul grimly.

For a little while there was another silence between them, then the judge seemed to change his tactics.

"I think you do wrongly, my son, not to employ counsel. I do not doubt that your brains are quite as good as anyone's you might engage to defend you; but you cannot understand the methods of cross-examination as a trained barrister can. You do not know the hundred weapons he can use in your defence."

"I think I know," replied Paul.

Both of them had become calm by this time, and each talked in an almost unrestrained manner. The judge was no longer almost overwhelmed by that through which he had been passing, and Paul had seemingly, to a very large extent, forgotten the bitterness which he had felt at the beginning of their interview.

"May I come to see you again?" asked Judge Bolitho.

"To what end?" asked Paul.

"Because I love you, my son. Because I long to be near you. Because I want to win your love; to hear you say you forgive me. I have sinned against you; but, believe me, I have done all in my power to atone. I must go now, but I shall be thinking for you, hoping for you, working for you, praying for you."

There was something so humble and so sincere in the tones of his voice that, in spite of the past, Paul could not longer repel him.

"Won't you shake hands?" he said. "Won't you tell me that you will try to forgive me?—only try, Paul!"

But Paul stood as still as a statue. He felt himself yielding to his father's pleadings, and he was angry with himself because of it. And yet he could not destroy the tender feelings which were coming into his heart.

"Will nothing move you, my son—nothing?"

Still Paul did not reply. He was afraid to speak. He felt as though, if he uttered a word, it would end in a sob. They had been together more than an hour, and in the near distance a clock began to chime.

"I must go now," said the judge. "But I shall come again. I shall never cease coming until I have won your love. Paul, I cannot live without it now! Look into my eyes, my son; can you not see? Can you not understand?"

In spite of himself Paul did as his father had told him, and realised how the proud man was humbling himself. He saw the lines of pain upon his face, saw, too, the look of infinite yearning and tenderness in his eyes; and he felt that his own were filled with tears. But still he hardened himself and made no sign.

The judge threw his arms round Paul's neck.

"Paul, my son, my son! Forgive me!" he said, "and love me!"

And Paul did not repulse him, even although he did not yield to his father's entreaties.

There was a sound of footsteps in the corridor, the noise of the key turning in the lock. A minute later Judge Bolitho had left the cell; and then Paul threw himself on the couch, while his frame shook with mighty sobs.

Judge Bolitho left Strangeways Gaol without speaking a word. In spite of everything he felt his visit had not been in vain. There was a joy in his heart for which he could not account.

"Some day he will know," he said to himself. "Some day he will know, if he lives! And I must save him. I do not believe he is guilty—he cannot be. He is hiding something from me. He is shielding someone. I must find out."

It was quite dark by now, and it was some time before he found a cab. A little later, however, he was back in his hotel again. It seemed to him as though his powers of action were coming back. He was no longer bewildered and overwhelmed as he had been.

"Is Miss Bolitho here?" he said to a servant who answered his call.

"No, my lord. She left this morning."

"Left this morning?"

"Yes, my lord."

"Did she leave no message?"

"No, my lord."

He remembered what she had said, and began to realise.

"All right," he said. "Will you bring me a cup of tea?"

A few minutes later he was in the street again. This time he used no conveyance, but walked rapidly towards Deansgate. Ere long he found himself in the region where he had been on the previous night, and, finding his way into Dixon Street, he went to the house where Paul's mother had met him. When he knocked at the door, however, it was answered by a stranger.

"Is Mrs. Stepaside in?"

"No; she left here to-day."

"She's coming back again, I suppose?"

"No; I do not think so."

"Did she say where she was going?"

"I think she has gone back to Brunford, but I cannot tell."

"She left no message concerning her intentions?"

"No, she left nowt."

He was about to turn away when evidently a thought struck him suddenly.

"Had she any visitors to-day?" he asked. "Has a young lady been to see her?"

"Ay; a young woman came this morning about ten o'clock."

"Did you know her?"

"Nay, she was not from these parts. She was dressed i' furs and all that sort of thing."

"I see," said the judge. "Thank you very much."

He returned to the hotel, and began studying a timetable.

"Yes, I think I understand," he said to himself.



CHAPTER XXV

MR. JUSTICE BRANSCOMBE

For some days after Judge Bolitho had made his confession in court no further steps were taken in the trial of Paul. Another judge had to sit upon the case, and this meant delay. What took place in certain judicial circles I have no knowledge. It is for me simply to relate what actually resulted. Undoubtedly, the judge's unprecedented confession caused some stir in the realms of legal authority. Many forms had doubtless to be complied with, and, as a consequence, Paul had to wait one weary day after another without anything publicly taking place and without any knowledge of what was being done.

During this time not one of the three people whom he expected again came to see him. After the interview which I have tried to describe in the last chapter the judge, in spite of what he had said, failed to seek admission again to Paul's cell. As for Mary Bolitho or his mother, he had no knowledge concerning them. No word was sent to him, and as a consequence day succeeded day in the dull, dreary monotony of a Lancashire prison.

Not that he was without visitors. Two lawyers who had been friends of his came to see him, and each tried to change his mind in relation to the conduct of his own defence. They felt sure, they said, that they could do better for him than he had done for himself, and each pleaded with him to allow them to prepare his case and to place it in the hands of some leading counsel. But Paul persistently refused. He knew that if he trusted in them he must state certain facts which, although they might release him, would throw suspicion of the strongest nature upon his mother. He wanted to live in spite of everything. But even although the worst came to the worst, he would rather suffer the extreme penalty of the deed of which he was accused than that the mother who had suffered all for him and done all for him should be dragged before the eyes of the world as it had been his lot to be. The interviews with these lawyers were long and trying, and while he did not yield to them in the slightest degree, they were not without advantage to him. They helped him to arrange his plans with more clearness, and they let drop many hints which he felt sure would be of service to him. When he had entered upon the trial everything had been confused; he could not decide upon any method of procedure. But now things began to take shape. He felt as if he had had some experience, and that he would not enter upon the fight for his life without some knowledge of the weapons he had to use.

Presently the news came to him that his re-trial was to come on, and one morning he was taken from his cell, as in the first instance, accompanied by two policemen, who led him into the prisoner's dock.

His experiences had left their mark upon him. He was still scrupulously precise about his dress, and every detail of his person was attended to as carefully as if he had arranged to make a set speech in the House of Commons. But no one could help remarking on the change which had passed over him. He looked thin and haggard; in his eyes was an expression of weariness; his skin was grey and almost parchment-like; and, instead of seeming to be without nerves, as on the previous occasions, his hands trembled as they rested upon the rail in front of him. But no one could suggest that he asked for pity. There was still the same proud look upon his face, the same expression of defiance. He stood perfectly straight and upright, too, and seemed to regard both judge and jury with a feeling of contempt. In addition to all this there was something in his square jaw and set teeth which denoted a grim determination. Here was not a man who was going to deliver himself over to the butcher without a protest. Everyone felt that he would fight, and fight to the very last.

Although he had been told that it would be so, he did not realise until that moment that the trial would have to commence de novo. He looked at the judge with keen interest, and noted the difference between him and the one who had last sat there. He could not help remembering, too, what had taken place. The things he had heard had shaken his life to its very foundation; he who had regarded himself as fatherless had found his father, and this fact had altered everything. Perhaps, too, Judge Branscombe, who from his elevation looked at Paul, felt this. In any case, it was evident he had a keen interest in him. He noted his every movement, marked his every feature, and formed his impressions concerning the man who was there for trial.

Judge Branscombe was utterly different from his predecessor. As we have said, Judge Bolitho was florid, somewhat heavy featured, in spite of the fact that his face was cast in a classical mould. He was fresh coloured, too, and suggested a bon vivant. Judge Branscombe, on the other hand, was a little man, with small, watchful eyes and sharp-pointed features. He was a lawyer to his very finger-tips, keen, penetrating, and a master of detail. He was a judge who did not deal with broad issues. He dealt with facts, hard, incontrovertible facts, rather than what might lie beyond them. What might be called "internal evidence" had little weight with him. What any prisoner might be likely to do under a given set of circumstances had little or no weight with him. It was what the prisoner had been known to do that he fastened upon and held to with the tenacity of a terrier. Not a cruel man by any means, but in a sense a little man; a man of keen intellect but of narrow outlook; a man who followed out a certain set of circumstances to their logical issue regardless of all other probabilities which might appear. Such was the judge who sat to hear Paul's case that day. Such was the man who in time would have to advise the jury concerning their verdict.

Paul was not long in summing up the nature of Judge Branscombe, and he felt sure that under his guidance the trial would more than ever rest upon circumstantial evidence. This man was not a reader of character, not one who studied probabilities, therefore he felt his battle would be hard to fight.

The court was again crowded to its utmost capacity, and the excitement which had prevailed at the first trial had not lessened in the slightest degree. Everyone there knew of what had taken place and realised the reason for the change of judges. All sorts of rumours had been afloat concerning what had become of Judge Bolitho, what had been said in high places, and what the result would be in his future career. The whole affair had been the talk of the country. People had come from afar to witness the outcome of this strange case, and, as on the previous occasion, the atmosphere was tense with excitement and keen with expectation.

Again the clerk of the assizes rose and read the indictment, and again the judge turned to Paul and asked him whether he were guilty or not guilty.

"Not guilty, my lord," he replied.

Everyone noted that there was a tone of defiance in his voice which they had missed on the first occasion. He found himself examining the jurymen. As far as he could judge, they were of the same calibre—unimaginative, commonplace, and, to a large extent, self-satisfied men. He thought, however, that they looked toward him with an expression of sympathy which he had not noted before. Perhaps they, too, had been influenced by the happenings of the previous trial.

Then Mr. Bakewell rose and said, "I am for the prosecution, my lord."

"Who is for the defence?" asked the judge.

And again there was deathly silence.

"Have you not engaged anyone to defend you?" said Judge Branscombe, turning to Paul.

"No one," replied Paul. "I wish to defend myself."

The judge uttered an exclamation of surprise. It might seem as though he knew nothing of the previous trial. He was a lawyer of the very strictest class. What had been was nothing to him. He was there to begin the trial at the beginning, and he would act as though nothing had taken place and as though he were utterly ignorant of what had been discussed throughout the whole land.

"I strongly advise you to accept the service of someone to undertake your defence," he said; and he mentioned one or two names of those whom he felt sure would be willing to act for him. To Paul this seemed like a repetition of a formula. It was all artificial, unreal.

"No, my lord," he replied. "I intend to defend myself."

"Then you will know," said the judge, "that you have the right to cross-examine the witnesses."

"Thank you, my lord."

Again Mr. Bakewell rose for the prosecution. His speech was very nearly a repetition of the one he had delivered on the previous occasion, but for some reason or another it did not have the same effect as during its first deliverance. The jury were acquainted with the facts that had been discussed a hundred times in a hundred different ways during the last few days. Still, there could be no doubt about it, the case looked very black for Paul when it concluded. The long feud which was known to exist between Paul and the murdered man; the many threats which had been uttered; the quarrel which had taken place on the night when Paul was elected member for Brunford; the open insults which the murdered man had hurled at the prisoner; the scene which had taken place on the night before the murder, and the threat he had made to avenge the injury. Mr. Bakewell also dwelt upon the excited state in which Paul was when he returned to the house, as would be proved by the evidence of the servants; of his going upstairs to the landing outside the servants' quarters at midnight; of his going out into the night alone; of his return early in the morning, pale and haggard; then, as the crowning evidence of all, the knife, which was known to be Paul's, which had been lying in his office—an office which was always locked when the owner of it was not present—the sharp, murderous weapon was found in the body of the murdered man, struck from behind.

All these things Mr. Bakewell described, and spoke with telling emphasis on the main features of the case. Possibly he knew the character of the judge to whom he addressed himself, and he had so arranged his speech that the chain of evidence was apparently complete. When he sat down a great pent-up sigh arose, not only from the jurymen, but from the excited spectators. Although during the early part of what he had said the emotion was not so great as during the first trial, yet, as he summed up the case for the prosecution, fastened one link to another of the chain of events, and declared in solemn tones that the witnesses he had to call would prove everything he had said to the minutest detail, it seemed as though they expected the judge to put on the black cap and to utter the terrible words which have to be uttered on every condemned prisoner.

Paul, however, was not greatly moved by Mr. Bakewell's speech. He listened keenly, attentively, to all he had to say, made a note, and that was all.

It is not my purpose to follow the trial step by step. Those who care to do so can turn up the files of the Manchester papers, where they can find it in every detail; but in this history I do not purpose dwelling at length upon the many examinations that were made and on the voluminous evidence given. As far as Paul was concerned, he did not endeavour to cross-examine many of the witnesses. As far as he could see, their evidence was in the main true. They had given a statement of facts, and he felt that it would be utter waste of time to deal with details which might show discrepancies, but which were, as far as he could judge, of but little importance. He wanted to fasten upon the main features of the case, and then, without in the slightest degree hinting at anything which would connect his mother with the murder of Ned Wilson, to prove how utterly improbable, if not impossible, it was, that he should be guilty of the deed of which he was accused.

Still, he did cross-examine some of the witnesses, and it was evident by the look in the judge's eyes that he appreciated the cleverness of the cross-examination. Indeed, so successful was Paul that on more than one occasion he made this keen-minded lawyer—more lawyer, indeed, than man—realise that circumstantial evidence might be false, and that a jury would assume tremendous responsibility in passing judgment of death upon anyone upon such evidence. Especially was this true in the case of the examination of the murdered man's father. He, as on the opening day of the first trial, was the most important witness, and after Mr. Bakewell had elicited from him practically the same admissions as had been given on the previous occasion, Paul rose to cross-examine him.

"Mr. Wilson," he said, "you have stated more than once that beside myself your son had no other enemy. Do you still adhere to this?"

"Certainly."

"Do you mean to say that during his life he has never gained the ill-will or the enmity of anyone besides me?"

"Not that I know of."

"You insist on this?"

"Yes. That is, no enmity of importance."

"What do you mean by importance?"

"I mean any enmity that would lead anyone to murder him."

"I want to ask you further questions about this. One of the witnesses who gave evidence concerning the quarrel between your son and myself on the night prior to his death is called Scott, is he not?"

"Yes."

"John Scott?"

"Yes."

"John had a son called Nick; is that not so?"

"Yes."

"Some three years ago he had a quarrel with your son?"

"Yes."

"It ended in Nick Scott being sent to prison. Is that true?"

"It is true that Nick Scott was sent to prison, but it had nothing whatever to do with his quarrel with my son. That was about a very trivial affair."

"But did not Nick Scott say that he'd pay your son out if he had to swing for it?"

"There was some such rumour, I believe. I paid no attention to it."

"I am taking this line, my lord," continued Paul, "because of the witness's evidence. He says that his son had no enemy in Brunford. I am going to prove to you that he had."

The judge nodded, while Paul again turned to the witness.

"You still adhere to the fact, then, do you, that your son had no enemy beside myself?"

"I did not think of Scott, because he was not in the country; besides, it was of no importance. Men often utter threats like that."

"It pains me to bring up another case," said Paul. "But please remember I am here accused of murder. Do you know a woman named Mary Bradshaw? She lives in Clough Street."

"I have heard of such a woman; yes."

"Your son was once very friendly with her. Had that woman no reason to hate him?"

"That was years ago."

Paul asked many questions concerning this woman which I will not set down here, because they were necessarily of a sordid nature, but which went to prove that although in neither case could these people have had anything to do with the murder, Ned Wilson was not universally beloved, as his father had stated, but bitterly hated.

"You have admitted to me," went on Paul at length, "that he was believed to have wronged two people, and that both of them had reason to bear him enmity. Might there not have been others of whom you never heard?"

"Of course my son was thirty years of age, and he lived his own life. At the same time it is universally admitted that he was respected in the town and beloved by practically everyone."

"With the exception of these people, who, as you have admitted, uttered dark threats against him?"

At this the witness was silent.

"We will now go on to the question of the knife," said Paul, "concerning which you have made so much." And he dealt with this question in a similar way to that with which he had dealt with it on the previous occasion. The tendency of his questions was to show how unlikely it was that he, whom the witness still called a clever, scheming, cold-blooded villain, should use a knife known to be his, a knife that had been seen on his office desk, and leave it in the murdered man's body, knowing that all the time it could be traced to himself.

"There is still something more important," said Paul. "From the evidence given it is known that I parted from your son at twilight on the night before the murder."

"Yes."

"On that occasion he struck me down when I was walking away from him. The blow almost deprived me of my senses, and I lay stunned for some seconds."

"Yes."

"When I rose I made no attack on him."

"No."

"But I uttered a threat that I would be even with him."

"Yes. I regard your words as practically a threat of murder."

"Do you know what your son was doing between that time and the time when he was supposed to meet with the person who murdered him?"

"No; I cannot tell."

"You say he came into the house where two letters awaited him; those two letters he read, and then threw them into the fire. Do you know what was in those letters?"

"No; I have no idea."

"You saw the envelopes. In what handwriting were they—that of a man or a woman?"

"I did not take particular notice, but I thought one was written by a man and the other by a woman."

"Just so! and he threw these letters into the fire?"

"Yes."

"Did he seem to be pleased at seeing them?"

The witness was silent for a second, then he said: "It is difficult to tell."

"That is not an answer to my question. Did he not show anger, or at least annoyance, as he read one of these letters?"

"Well, perhaps he did."

"Thank you. Now then, I want to ask you this: You say he went out after dinner that night. Did he tell you where he was going?"

"No. I thought he was going to his club."

"You know, too, that he did not go to his club. That has come out in the evidence."

"I am told that he was not seen there."

"Now then for the question that I regard of such importance. Do you know of any woman likely to write to your son and ask him to meet her?"

Again the witness looked confused. "I think the question unfair," he said. "One might have all sorts of suspicions, but it would be wrong to give expression to them, as I have no definite knowledge."

"I must insist on the question, my lord," said Paul, turning to the judge.

"Certainly," replied the judge. "It has a strong bearing upon the case."

"Then I must repeat the question," said Paul, turning to the witness.

Whereupon Mr. Wilson admitted that he had more than once seen his son in company with a woman whom he did not know.

"Might it not have been her letter that night?"

"Of course, I cannot tell," replied the witness. "Everything I say upon the question is pure surmise, and I can substantiate nothing."

"Was the writing on the envelope that of an educated woman?"

"No, I should say not; but it might have been disguised."

"Thank you," said Paul. "You say you saw your son in company with this woman. Where did you see them?"

"At some little distance from the Coal Clough Golf Links."

"Did they seem on good terms?"

"I cannot say. I should not think so."

"Was the woman angry with him?"

"She might have been."

"You judged that she was?"

"Yes; I thought she was."

"Now to return to the night of the murder. You say that your son did not tell you where he was going?"

"No."

"That you thought he was going to his club?"

"I thought it probable; yes."

"Don't you think it probable that he went to meet this woman?"

"I don't know."

"You see how important the question is. You say your son left the house at ten o'clock that night, and that he was not seen until the following morning, when he was discovered by the policeman, murdered. According to the doctor's evidence he had been dead some little time before that. Thus there are several hours to account for. Have you no idea where he was during those hours?"

"None at all beside what I have told you."

This part of the examination continued for some time; though beyond what I have written nothing of importance was elicited. But the evidence given created an impression which could not be gainsaid.

Paul had made it abundantly evident that the murdered man was not without enemies, as had been so strongly insisted, and he had also raised doubts concerning what he had been doing between the hours when Wilson left his father's house and the time of the murder.

In this cross-examination, however, Paul was much handicapped. He dared not refer to the conversation which had taken place between himself and Ned Wilson during their quarrel, for fear of in any way bringing Mary's name into evidence. Up to the present, no one thought of connecting her with the matter in any definite way, and Paul was determined that, whatever took place, this must be avoided. Neither could he remove the difficulty of the knife without connecting it with his mother. As we have said, she was in his office on the morning of the day of his quarrel with Wilson, and was, as far as he could see, the only one who could have obtained possession of it. Still, he had made the most of his opportunities, and although on this murderous weapon the issues of the trial seemed largely to rest, he made more than one juryman feel that he was not the kind of man to use it in such a fashion and then leave it as evidence against himself.

During his cross-examination of the next witness, too, he further destroyed the statement that Wilson was a man without enemies.

John Scott was one of the two men who had witnessed the quarrel between himself and Wilson. Mr. Bakewell examined him very closely.

"You say," he said, "that you saw the prisoner and the murdered man together?"

"Yes."

"You heard angry words pass between them, but you could not tell what they were?"

"No."

"You saw the prisoner walk away, and as he was doing so, saw Mr. Edward Wilson strike him with a stick?"

"Yes; he knocked him down."

"Will you tell us what followed?"

"I saw Mr. Stepaside get up, and I thought he was going to attack Wilson. There was a look of murder in his eyes, as I thought, but he didn't do owt. He simply said that he'd pay him out for this, or summat of that sort. And I said to my mate, 'Stepaside'll kill Wilson for that.'"

This evidence, which was given in the rough Lancashire dialect, was nevertheless very impressive. The witness and Mr. Bakewell made the jury see, as if in a picture, the two men quarrelling, Wilson striking an angry blow, and Paul breathing out murder against him.

"John Scott," said Paul, when he rose to cross-examine him, "you've known me a good many years?"

"Ay; I've known you ever since you came to Brunford."

"You know the kind of man I am?"

"Ay; I think so."

"You say you saw me walk away from Wilson, who lifted his stick and struck me down?"

"Ay, I did."

"After I had been stunned for two or three minutes I rose to my feet?"

"Ay."

"We were in a lonely place at that time, and you say I was unaware of your presence?"

"Yes; that is so."

"Do you not think if I meant to murder Wilson that I should not have done it at the time when my anger was aroused, rather than wait several hours?"

"Weel, I should think so; but there's no knowing."

"Just so. Now I want to ask you another question. As you know, it has been stated many times that the murdered man had no enemy in Brunford beside myself: would you say that was true?"

"No, I shouldn't. My Nick hated him like he hated the devil. He were a kind-hearted lad, but Ned Wilson treated him terribly bad. Nick is out of the country now, but there's no doubt he has a grudge against Wilson."

"Do you know of any others in Brunford who have a similar feeling towards him?"

"Weel, I know that there was no love lost between Ned Wilson and lots of people."

This led to many more questions and answers which went to destroy the illusion that the murdered man had been universally popular. And for some time after that the trial seemed to go in Paul's favour rather than against him.

Then it seemed as though a bolt came from the blue. A man was called into the box who had not appeared in the previous trial. He was a collier, who appeared in a great state of nervousness.

"You were returning to Brunford on the night of the murder, and had to pass near Howden Clough?"

"Ay; I wur."

"What time did you pass near Howden Clough?"

"It must have been about five o'clock in the morning. But I'm noan sure, and it wur dark."

"What were you doing there?"

"I had been to see my lad, who lives over Rakes Royd. He wur married twelve months ago, and his missis sent me word that he were very poorly. I stayed wi' him most o' th' night, and then walked back so's to be in time for my wark."

"And you say you think it was about five o'clock when you passed Howden Clough?"

"Ay, it wur."

"Tell the jury what you saw."

"Well, I were going along th' road, when I thought I heerd somebody moaning. I wondered what it could be, and I stopped still. I wur in the lane not far from the big 'ouse, and I heerd footsteps."

"Was it a man's voice or a woman's voice you heard?"

"I thought it were a man's voice."

"Well, go on."

"I had not been standing still above 'aaf a minute when I see'd a man coming toward me. He come close to where I was, and then he stopped still."

"Did he see you?"

"Nay; he couldna see me, for I was standing close t' th' edge, and he was looking straight on."

"Did you recognise who it was?"

"Ay, I did. It were Maaster Paul Stepaside."

"You are certain of this?"

"Ay, I'm certain."

"But you said it was dark, just now. How could you be certain who it was in the dark?"

"Well, it was noan so dark as all that, and as I had been walking four mile, my eyes had got accustomed to the darkness; and more than that, there was a break in the clouds just then, and I think there must have been a bit of moonlight. Anyhow, I can swear it were Mr. Paul Stepaside."

"Did he speak to you?"

"Nay; he never spoke to me. As I told you, he never seed me, but were looking straight on."

"Did he seem calm, self-possessed?"

"Nay; all t' other way. He looked like a man beside hissen."

"Did you hear him say anything?"

"Ay, I did. I heerd him say, 'My God! I never thought it would come to this,' or summat like that. I won't be sure as to the exact words, but it was summat like that."

"Did he stand beside you long?"

"Nay, not more than while one could count ten, perhaps. Then he rushed off, and he were muttering to hissen; but what he were saying aw could noan make out."

"And that was all?"

"Ay, that was all."

"But you did not tell this at the inquest."

"Nay; I didn't want to be dragged into it. Besides, I didn't know what it meant; but I did mention it to my missis, and my missis mentioned it to the wife of a policeman, who told it to her 'usband; and that's how it come out."

As may be imagined, the effect of this evidence was remarkable. It supplied a kind of link in the chain. It was now proved beyond question that Paul was in the vicinity of the murder very near to the time when it actually took place. And in the face of it all, all that had been said in his favour seemed to be as nothing. Not only was it Paul's knife that was found in Wilson's body, but Paul, although he had not been seen to strike the blow, had been seen close to the spot where the murder took place almost at the time of its actual occurrence, and he had been heard to utter words such as a guilty man would have been likely to utter.

At this time the court adjourned, and all felt that Paul's doom was sealed.



CHAPTER XXVI

PAUL'S DEFENCE

The next morning the trial was resumed, and to the surprise of many it did not come to an end that day. Many other witnesses were called which at first were unthought of, and thus the case was dragged out to what seemed to Paul an interminable length. On the third day, however, the examinations were concluded, and Mr. Bakewell rose to address the jury on the evidence which had been given. Some spoke of his speech afterwards as one of the finest that had ever been delivered in Manchester, while others declared it to be devilish in its cleverness, but that, in view of the fact that the prisoner would have no one to defend him, it was unfair. One eminent counsel, who would gladly have taken Paul's case, said that it was the custom of counsel for prosecution in the case of murder to seek to give absolute fair play to the prisoner, and to suppress nothing which might tell in his favour, but that it seemed to be the set purpose of Mr. Bakewell to secure a sentence of death for Paul, just as he would try to secure a verdict in favour of any client for whom he was trying to obtain damages. But this was mentioned in private, and could, of course, have no weight with the jury. Certain it is that he made a very strong case against Paul. He opened his speech with the usual remarks about the seriousness of the case before them and the difficulty he had in approaching it in the right spirit. He also admitted that Paul was a young man who bore a good character in the town, and had so far secured public favour as to be rewarded with the highest measure of confidence with which any town could reward him. But having said all that, it was his duty to deal with the facts which had been brought before them, and it was for the jury to say whether, in the face of that evidence, the prisoner was not guilty of the terrible deed of which he was accused. He referred to the fact that the prisoner had chosen to defend himself, and as a consequence lessened hid chances of acquittal, but they had also to consider the inwardness of that fact. What was the prisoner's reason for being undefended? It was not that he could not afford to obtain the most eminent counsel at the criminal bar, or because he was not advised by the judge to secure such counsel. An innocent man had nothing to hide. It was only the guilty who sought to shelter himself behind silence. He would like to testify to the prisoner's ability in cross-examination and of his power to nullify the force of certain evidence which told against him. But they had not to deal with sophistries. They had to deal with the hard facts which had been submitted to them. These facts he enumerated one by one, dealing with the evidence which had been given in support of them. He admitted that there might be certain difficulties in their way, certain things hard to explain, and which could only be explained by the prisoner. Still, certain facts remained—facts upon which they would have to judge. Presently came the summing-up of his speech, and it was here that Mr. Bakewell justified the reputation he had won as one of the cleverest of criminal lawyers. Everything in Paul's disfavour was set before them in cold, clear, terse language. One point after another was emphasised with terrible precision, and so great was the impression made that it seemed as though both judge and jury could see only with his eyes. All the things which appeared as difficulties were apparently removed. The facts of the case pointed to one man as the murderer of Edward Wilson, and that one man was Paul Stepaside. Mr. Bakewell seemed to be under strong emotion, but that very emotion strengthened the impression which he had made, especially when he spoke of the sacredness of human life, spoke of the terrible responsibility of a jury in condemning a prisoner to death. Nevertheless, he seemed to make it impossible for them to do anything else. When he sat down it seemed as though the scaffold were already erected, and the ghastly rope swinging from it.

Of course, the court was again crowded almost to suffocation. Mr. Bakewell had spoken for more than two hours, and during the whole time the interest had been intense, the excitement almost overwhelming. Whenever he paused it seemed as though they could hear the wings of the Angel of Death fluttering over them. Women sobbed aloud, strong men breathed forth quivering sighs. Even the barristers who sat watching the case, and who as a rule regarded murder cases with an air of nonchalance, could not hide their emotion. Everything seemed to be prejudged. No evidence had been adduced strong enough to save the prisoner, and each juryman, who sat with eyes fixed upon the eloquent counsel, looked as though there were only one thing to do, and that was to pronounce the word "Guilty."

Paul had sat during the whole time of the delivery of this speech, listening to every word with breathless eagerness. Never until that day had he realised how near death was to him. Throughout the whole trial he had never really believed that the jury could find him guilty. Now, however, it seemed as though they could do nothing else. Never had he felt his loneliness as he felt it then. The judge did not seem to be a man, but merely a legal machine, uninfluenced by great emotions, and considering his case only as a case. No one had been to see him since the trial had recommenced under Judge Branscombe, save the warders and the chaplain. In one way he was glad it was so, but in another he longed for society, longed for comfort. Eagerly on each morning of the trial had he looked around the court, dreading yet hoping to see the face of Mary Bolitho, whom he still loved as a man should love the woman he hopes to marry, even although he knew her to be his sister. Each morning, too, he had longed to see the face of his mother, although he hoped she would not be there. And while he still declared that nothing could soften his heart against Judge Bolitho, he felt as though the sight of his face would have helped him.

What were they doing? he wondered, the man whom he had lately learnt was his father, and his mother, and his half-sister—no, he could not call her sister even now, and he wondered why it was. When Mr. Bakewell had finished his speech he heaved a sigh of relief. At least the worst had been told. All that could be done to hang him had been done—at least, as far as evidence was concerned. And then there came back to him the old determination to fight to the bitter end. At least he had his chance to reply, and he nerved himself for the work he had to do. He had no idea of time. He had never thought of it. He knew it was at the beginning of the afternoon session when Mr. Bakewell rose to address the jury, but he had no thought of the time which had elapsed. He had been simply listening, listening, as if it were a matter of life and death—as in reality it was—to the address which had been made. He was expecting the judge to call upon him to make his speech for his own defence, and was arranging his thoughts in order to do so, when the judge turned towards him and asked him if his defence would take any considerable time.

"Yes," replied Paul, "it will."

"Then we will adjourn the court until to-morrow."

"Perhaps," added the judge, with a wan smile, "you will be glad of this. It will allow you some little time to make your preparations."

"Thank you, my lord," he replied.

And then he was led away to his cell.

When Paul entered the dock on the following morning he carried with him a sheaf of papers, the result of the previous night's work. When he returned to his cell he asked for writing materials, and then for several hours worked steadily. A strange calm possessed him while he was doing this, not without a certain sense of enjoyment, grim as the circumstances were. He was fighting for his own life, and there was a kind of intellectual pleasure in framing his arguments and in meeting the statements which Mr. Bakewell had so forcibly expressed in his final speech. He had always loved a battle of wits, and, terrible as the circumstances were, the pleasure which an intellectual struggle gave him was not absent even on this occasion.

When he had concluded writing he was utterly exhausted, but here his splendid physique came to his aid, and he slept several hours peacefully. At least he had one satisfaction. Whatever might be the issue of the terrible day which lay before him, terrible whatever might happen, he was an innocent man. He had struck no murderous blow, and he could go down to the grave with a clear conscience, knowing that he had tried to do what was right under the circumstances. Sometimes a shadow of doubt came into his mind as to whether his mother were really guilty of the terrible deed of which he was accused, but as he reviewed the circumstances, and remembered what she had said to him, it seemed as though a cold hand had gripped his heart, and it convinced him that it was she in spite of himself. Considering all the events, he could think of no one else who was likely to commit the deed; and so, while he determined to fight to the very last, he could at least do his utmost to keep any shadow of suspicion from falling on her.

Great as the excitement had been on the previous day's trial, it seemed, if possible, greater now, or rather it was an excitement of a different nature. Hitherto a sense of strangeness and wonder had predominated; a morbid curiosity and a desire for sensationalism had possessed the minds and hearts of those who had witnessed the trial. But to-day another element was added—an element of terror. On the previous days there had been a suggestion of a stage trial. Many, although they had breathlessly followed the evidence given, did not seem to realise that it might end in death. But that was all over now. The inwardness of everything, the ghastly issues of the scene, became tremendously real. All felt that now Paul Stepaside was indeed fighting for his life. The shadow of the scaffold rested upon him. A thousand unseen enemies seemed to be there trying to drag him to his doom. And he, unaided and alone, had to meet not only the terrible charge which was laid against him, but a kind of fiendish cleverness with which that charge had been urged. Men held their breath as he entered the dock; reporters forgot their duty as they watched his face; the jurymen, bearing in mind the terrible speech which Mr. Bakewell had delivered on the previous evening, and believing that nothing could remove the impression of that speech, looked on him with gloomy interest. Even the judge, legal machine as he appeared to be, showed more than ordinary interest and seemed to be wondering what he had to say for himself.

To all appearance, indeed, Paul was the most self-possessed man in the court. Pale he was, it is true, but upright, clear-sighted, determined. Unversed as he was in the intricacies of the law and possessing none of the experience which characterised the counsel for the prosecution, Mr. Bakewell felt that here indeed was a foeman worthy of his steel, and that had he been trained for the bar he would not have long remained an obscure member of that learned profession.

The formalities of the day were quickly gone through, and Paul rose to address the jury.

I cannot here give in detail the speech which he delivered, cannot describe the intensity with which he spoke, although I watched the trial from day to day. I can only convey a vague impression, not only of the speech which he delivered, but of the effect of his words. Even now I can see him standing in the dock, quietly arranging his papers with firm, steady hands, and then pushing them away as if they could be of no use to him. I can see the steady light in his eyes; the pale, clear-cut face; strong, determined features, upright form. I can feel, too, the tremendous emotion which seemed to overwhelm all present. But these things cannot be conveyed in cold print; they can only be hinted at.

He commenced by saying that he stood there accused of the most serious of charges. It had been urged that he was guilty of murder, and there could be no doubt that a murder had been committed. It was not a question of pleading for partial forgiveness. No question of mercy could be considered. Either he was guilty of murder or he was not, for undoubtedly the deceased man had been murdered. If he had been guilty of that murder, then the jury would do right to pronounce that verdict; if not, then they took upon themselves the responsibility of condemning an innocent man to death.

"The counsel for the prosecution," urged Paul, "has mentioned something about giving me the benefit of a doubt. There is no matter of benefit in it, and I decline to accept the term. It is only a matter of justice. It is only justice I desire. My lord and gentlemen of the jury, I have refused to enter the witness-box, not because I desired to keep back anything in relation to the murder, for in truth I know absolutely nothing, but because I might be, probably should be, asked questions on matters on which I desire to remain silent. I appeal to your understanding in relation to this. There are secret matters—ay, and sacred matters—in everyone's life which one does not wish to be discussed by the world at large, and it is for this reason, and this reason only, that I have declined to go into the witness-box. If it were simply a matter of dealing with my connection with the death of the deceased man, I would gladly answer any question that may be asked, because, as I repeat, I know nothing.

"The learned counsel has also referred to my decision to be my own defender, and has admitted that I may possibly suffer some disadvantage because of it. I did so for more than one reason. The first I have just suggested. No counsel could be of any value to me unless I gave him my absolute and complete trust. Again I say, there are certain matters utterly and wholly removed from the crime of which I am accused which I do not wish to make known. Possibly this may tell against me; but, gentlemen, when you think of the happenings of the last few days, when you remember, my lord, the wonderful and unprecedented confession which was made from the chair you now occupy, a confession which vitally affects me, you can understand that there are other things in my life—perfectly innocent, yes, and in a vital sense very sacred—which I do not wish to confide to any man. More on that question I will not say. The other reason I have for defending myself is that while an abler man than myself might be obtained, a more eloquent man, a far more learned man, I could secure no one who is so certain of my own innocence as I am myself, and as a consequence no one could plead with the same earnestness, albeit haltingly, yet no one can plead with the same conviction that I can. For, my lord and gentlemen, at the very outset of what I wish to say I must again urge that I know absolutely nothing of this man's murder. I struck no blow, and am as far removed from his death as the little children who were born in this city last night!

"Now, my lord and gentlemen, the whole weight of the accusation brought against me depends entirely upon circumstantial evidence, and you, my lord, who are so learned in the law, know full well the value that can be attached to such evidence. You know that again and again it has proved to be false. You know one particular case especially, when a man, who was condemned to die on circumstantial evidence, was three times brought to the scaffold, and three times the rope broke, and then, because of what may be called the superstitious feelings of the community at large, that sentence was reduced to penal servitude for life. I say you know, my lord, that although that circumstantial evidence seemed complete, when a renowned thief and murderer was brought to his trial and condemned to die, he confessed to this very murder. Moreover, you can see that when a man's life or death depends upon circumstantial evidence, that evidence must be complete. No link in the chain must be missing. If it is missing, then it would be a crime, and worse than a crime, to take away the life of a man because of it. And I shall show you, my lord and gentlemen, that not only is the chain of evidence incomplete in this case, but that many links are wanting in that chain, and therefore it has no strength whatever."

Paul paused here, and for a moment seemed to have forgotten his line of defence. He turned towards his notes, which he had placed beside him, as if with the intention of refreshing his memory, and then, like one angered at his seeming unreadiness, he appeared to make a mighty effort to gather together his scattered thoughts and to concentrate them. He gazed around the crowded court, watched the pale, set faces, not only of the jury, but of the spectators, noted the strained attention of the barristers and the steady scrutiny of the judge. He seemed for the moment like a man put upon his mettle and determined to play his part manfully.

"I would like," he said, "first of all to refer to the question of motive. The learned counsel has urged that I committed this murder because of personal hatred. The evidence which he sought to deduce, and upon which he dwelt almost to the point of tediousness, was that there was a long-standing feud between the murdered man and myself. He related incident after incident which went to show that, to say the least of it, no love was lost between us. I have no word to say against that evidence, no word to say against his methods of urging it against me. It was his duty as counsel for the prosecution. But I must ask you to examine this more closely. It is true that the murdered man had been my enemy for years. But should I be likely, because of his enmity, to murder him? Or, even if I belonged to the class of criminals which he would make me out to belong to, should I have chosen such an hour to commit that murder? Should I not have committed it, not in my hour of triumph, but in my hour of defeat?

"It has come out in the evidence that at the first election at Brunford the deceased man did his utmost to ruin me. He not only tried to tarnish the name of my mother as well as my own, but he did his best to ruin me financially. This has been proved, proved beyond a doubt; and as a result of what he did I lost that election. I say, if I had intended to murder him, would not that have been the time when I should have done it? Or again, would it not have been likely that I should have done it while in the heat of passion? As far as I can remember, the quarrel, which took place between us on the evening prior to the murder, has been correctly described. When I left him he struck me down. Gentlemen, I am not a weak man, but a strong man. If it was my desire to do him bodily harm, should I not be likely to do it then? We were there alone. As far as I knew, no eye was watching us, and naturally my passions would be roused by the cowardly blow he struck me; but I did nothing. I, so it was said, uttered a threat that I would be equal with him for this blow which he had struck, and then went away. Then, the learned counsel has urged, after I had walked nearly two miles back to my own home, after I had dressed for dinner, I waited until midnight, and then, with cool calculation, went out to kill this man. Can anyone in his senses believe such a thing? Besides, think of another thing. I was in a position to laugh at Wilson's enmity. I had won an eminent position in the town of my adoption. I had risen from obscurity to be a member of Parliament for that town. I had made a speech in the House of Commons which had attracted notice throughout the whole country. I was the subject of leading articles in newspapers. What was Wilson's enmity to me? I could have afforded to have left Brunford altogether. I could have lived in London, where I need never have seen him. Was I likely, then—not in a moment of mad passion, mark you—not in resentment for a coward's blow which had been struck immediately before, but after seven hours—was I likely to go out into the dead of the night to kill him? Forgive me for urging this matter, but the question of motive must come in, and to say that this deed was the outcome of a long personal feud is, under the circumstances, preposterous. Is this link in the chain strong enough to hold? Nay, is it a link at all? And does not the chain break in consequence?"

It was at this point that Paul held both judge and jury strongly. I know I altogether fail to convey the impression he made. In cold print, while his words may seem reasonable, and even forcible, they only give a hint at their power when they were uttered as he uttered them.

The next point with which he dealt was with that of the knife. This knife, known to be Paul's, was found driven through Edward Wilson's heart, driven from behind. And it had been used with great skill by the counsel for the prosecution. He had considered it from every standpoint, and it had seemed, at the time, that no one but Paul could have used it.

"This," said Paul, "is the one definite thing urged against me. Everything else is pure surmise, but the knife was known to be mine. The knife was in my office, an office which is always locked when I have occasion to leave it. Therefore, no one but myself could have used it. Such is the counsel's argument. Again I ask you to consider this carefully. Remember that no secret was ever made about my possessing this knife. It had been sent to me by a customer from abroad. It had been used as a paper-knife. It had been frequently seen by those who visited me lying on my office desk. It was not some secret thing, something about which the world knew nothing. It was known to be mine by scores of people—please bear that in mind. Then there is another thing-. It has come out in the evidence that I was not in the habit of carrying it. It is a sharp, murderous-looking blade, and it has been examined, my lord, not only by you, but by every member of the jury. I admit that this knife is mine. I admit all that my partner, Mr. George Preston, has said about it. But I want you to consider the tremendous gap between the fact of the knife known to belong to me, and the accusation that with this knife I murdered Mr. Edward Wilson. Now, will you please think carefully. It has been urged that I did this deed in cold blood. It was between three and four o'clock in the afternoon when I had a quarrel with Wilson and he struck me down. My servants have given testimony to the fact that I came home, talked with my mother, went into my study, stayed there for several hours. Then it is urged that I went out, carrying this knife with me; and, mark you, they did not see the knife in the house, no one saw me take it away from the office; but it is urged that I went out, after several hours' cool and calculated thought, at midnight; that I caught the murdered man unawares, drove the knife into his body, and then ran away and left it there. Now, think of this, gentlemen, and remember that my life or death depends upon the reasonableness of it, depends upon this link in the chain of circumstantial evidence. It has been urged again and again that whatever I am, I am not a fool, that I am capable of careful and connected thought, that I commenced my career in Brunford in a very small way, and that in a few years I have made it to be what it is, large and prosperous. It has been urged that I am far-seeing, careful, calculating, and that as a rule I am not a man who acts upon sudden impulses. Now, my lord and jury, I ask you, would such a man as I be likely to do this? I could have understood the accusation if in the heat of the passion which I naturally felt when the deceased man struck me a cowardly blow, I had, if I carried such a knife with me, which I never did, seized it and struck the murderous blow, and then in a state of panic rushed away for fear of the consequences. But after several hours had elapsed, during which time I should have time to think about it, and to realise the results of such a deed, that I should then, in a cool and calculated fashion, seek out a victim, strike the blow, and then leave the weapon in the body which must be inevitably traced to me, is a deed of such madness that I can only wonder that a gentleman with the erudition of the counsel should have thought it worth while to mention it!"

From this point Paul went on to deal with another matter, of which the counsel for the prosecution seemed to have taken no notice, but which, put as he put it, strengthened his case very considerably.

"I want you to consider the circumstances connected with the accusation again," he said presently. "It is known that I had only returned from London the day before. It has come out in the evidence that I wrote a letter to Wilson, asking him to meet me, and that Wilson replied refusing to do so. It has also been proved that I waylaid him not far from his own house, and that we had a quarrel. Concerning the nature of that quarrel I am not going to speak, but a quarrel there was, this I admit. Now, please bear in mind that I had only returned from London the previous day; that I knew nothing of Wilson's possible whereabouts; that I could have known nothing of his plans. It was impossible for me to tell what he was going to do, or where he was going to be. It has also come out in the evidence that I asked certain questions about him on the afternoon of the day before the murder. I went from one place to another where he had been, in order to find him—remember this was not done in secret, but openly—therefore I must have been utterly ignorant of his movements, or of his plans, except what I openly gathered that afternoon. Then we had a quarrel. He struck me down, and I, when I recovered from the blow, rose, said a few words to him, and walked away. I went back to my own house, and, on the testimony of the servants, was there the whole evening. I did not go out at all. It is also admitted that no messenger of any sort came to me that night, that no letters were received. Please bear these things clearly in mind. Then I went out at midnight, on a dark night, with the intent to murder 'him. Now think of the position. Would he not in all probability be in bed, as far as I knew? Brunford is not a town of late hours. Ordinarily, except when there is a social gathering, or something of the sort, people retire to rest between ten and eleven o'clock. But it is urged I went out with the intention of murdering him, carrying the knife with me, and yet having no means of even suspecting that he would be out; and that then I met him by chance, and having the knife ready, killed him, and left the knife in his body. My lord, and gentlemen, does not the chain of evidence entirely break? Is there any connecting link here at all? Can you condemn a man upon such evidence? Think of the tremendously long arm of coincidence which has to be imagined before you can connect me with it!

"With regard to the evidence which the counsel for the prosecution has urged with so much effect: I admit it is true. I was worried and perplexed that night. I did not utter the words which he has mentioned, but I do remember walking along a lane at no great distance from Howden Clough. I was troubled about a personal matter, and, if I may so put it, a secret matter, a matter which I cannot discuss, but which does not even by a gossamer thread connect me with the crime of which I am accused. And if you condemn me on such an evidence, then no man's life is safe. No man can be worried and perplexed without, under similar circumstances, being accused of a crime of which he would never dream!"

Again Paul made the jury feel as he felt, see as he saw. The evident sincerity of his tones, the force of his language, language which I have utterly failed to reproduce, carried conviction with every word. For the time being, at least, they felt that such an accusation bordered on the edge of the absurd, and to say the least of it, there was a tremendous gulf which had to be filled up, and that to fill it up by the belief in the long arm of coincidence, and to commit a man to the scaffold because of it, would be criminal indeed.

"There's only one point more that I wish to urge," said Paul. "It is this. It is plain to me that the deceased man was murdered. It is plain to us all, therefore, that someone must have been guilty of the deed. Who would be likely to be guilty? The statements which found credence here in the early part of the trial, that the deceased man had no enemy beside myself has been shattered and destroyed. It has been shown that one woman, at least, had reason to hate him with a deadly hatred, and that case alone throws a tremendous light upon the character of the deceased man. Far be it from me to throw suspicion upon any innocent person—I have suffered too much myself to think of doing such a thing—but even the deceased man's own father has made terrible admissions. Do these admissions mean nothing? Are they to count for nothing? That woman whose name has been mentioned, and who, from the evidence given, could have no connection with this crime, had a thousand times more reason to hate him than I. May there not be others? Nay, there must be others——"

At this point Paul, knowing that he was drawing near to the end of what he had to say, felt that he was indeed fighting for his life, and I will not endeavour to describe his speech further. Possessing a mind of more than ordinary clearness, having the gift of language to a marked degree, and also having the strongest motive to make the most of the facts which stood out clearly before him, he spoke almost like a man inspired. With trembling voice, he was outwardly calm in appearance. He again reviewed the evidence, showed its weakness, tore the sophistries of Mr. Bakewell to pieces, and moved the hearts of all present by his passionate appeal. More than once the spectators broke in applause, while the barristers nudged each other with nods of approval, as he made some special point in his defence. And presently, when he sat down, everyone felt that Paul had saved his own life, that he had fought a great battle and won it, that he not only did not commit the deed of which he was accused, but that he was utterly incapable of it, and that he would leave the court amid shouts of triumph. Even to this day his speech is spoken of as one of the most triumphant efforts ever made in the Manchester Assize Courts.

But this was only for a time. It is true he had seemingly answered Mr. Bakewell in every point. It is true, too, that it seemed a crime beyond all description to pronounce the Verdict of guilty upon him, but naturally it was an ex-parte Statement, it was the speech of a clever man fighting for his life, who naturally did the best with the material at his disposal. He had been talking for nearly two hours, and during that time all were under the spell not only of his words but of his personality.

When he had finished, the judge waited for perhaps a minute, and seemed to be looking at his notes, and presently all eyes were transferred from the prisoner's dock to the judge's chair. What had this keen legal machine to say? Throughout Paul's speech he had listened with close attention, and had evidently admired the points he had made. But as we have said, Judge Branscombe was a lawyer, a lawyer to the finger tips, and he was one who thought much of outward facts, and little of what might be probable or not probable. Long associated with the law as he was, he had known many cases where criminals had done the most unlikely things, and where facts had scattered theories to the winds. He had won eminence at the Bar because of this attitude of mind. He cared nothing about probabilities. He cared little about theories, but dealt with facts.

He began his summing-up by speaking of the unusual way in which the trial had been conducted. The prisoner had elected to be his own advocate, and that, as a consequence, he, the judge, had not been so particular about formalities as he would have been under different circumstances. He had allowed matters to be introduced in the cross-examination which were not strictly evidence. He also referred in high terms to the prisoner's defence. He spoke of him as a man of more than ordinary intellectual ability, who, with the gift of an orator, had played upon the various emotions of the jury as a clever musician plays with an instrument of which he is a master. And then, little by little, he went back to what he called "the cold hard facts of the case." From the pure lawyer's standpoint, his summing-up was perhaps just, but from the standpoint of the prisoner it was deadly. With a cleverness of which Paul did not believe anyone capable, he wore away the effect of what he had said, until, as it seemed to him, his speech seemed to be like that of another counsel for the prosecution. And yet, as I said, no one could accuse him of being unfair. He admitted the responsibility of the jury, spoke of the tremendous Issues at stake, and seemed desirous of guiding them into right paths. For nearly an hour he spoke, and then, amidst an excitement which was painful in the extreme, the jury went away to consider their verdict.

Minute after minute passed away, while everyone waited in painful suspense for the jurymen to return. The old feeling of uncertainty had come back to the spectators, the barristers, who had been so eagerly listening to the case, discussed in whispers what the probable result would be, and more than one woman had to be carried out of the court in a state of collapse. Men sat with hard, set faces, scarcely daring to move. How long they were away I do not know, but it seemed to all present like an eternity.

Presently the foreman of the jury appeared, and the judge returned to his chair.

"Gentlemen, are you agreed as to the verdict?"

"No, we are not agreed."

It was as though a mighty sob arose from the throats of all present. The judge, who wore an uneasy look as he reentered the court, seemed perturbed. A look of eager expectation was on the faces of the barristers. As for Paul, he became instinct with new life. His case was not hopeless—they were not agreed. The fiendishly clever speech of Mr. Bakewell and the deadly summing-up of the judge had not secured a verdict of guilty. He felt almost like a conqueror. Hope was in his heart. He would live even yet. The judge looked at his watch, as if in doubt what to do, but it was evident that he quickly made up his mind.



CHAPTER XXVII

THE VERDICT

"If you will tell me the points on which you are disagreed," said the judge at length, "I may be able to throw some light upon them, and also, perhaps, advise you."

"The points are these," said the foreman of the jury. "First of all, some among us are far from being convinced that the prisoner, if he were the murderer, would be likely to leave the knife in the murdered man's body. If he had struck the blow in a passion, and had then, overcome by panic, run away for fear of the consequences of what he had done, we could have understood it. But as we are dealing with circumstantial evidence, it seems utterly unlikely that a man who had premeditated a murder should have run away leaving a weapon which could be easily traced to him. That, at least, is the feeling of some members of the jury, and is one of the points which causes us to be divided.

"The second is this: there are some among us who feel very strongly the point of the prisoner's remarks concerning the probability of his knowing where the deceased was at the time of the murder. As he has stated, he would probably have been in bed at the time when he was actually killed. If the murder was premeditated, there are some who feel the utter unlikelihood of the prisoner going out alone at midnight on the chance of finding his victim.

"These are the points, my lord, on which we are not agreed, and unless further light is thrown upon them, there is no likelihood of agreement."

The juryman spoke in a hesitating fashion. He was evidently labouring under a very strong emotion, and was unable to control his voice or to express his thoughts with anything like clearness. Still, what we have just stated conveys a rough idea of the difficulties which faced them.

Again an intense silence pervaded the court as the foreman of the jury sat down. The suspense seemed almost too horrible to be borne. There was not a man in the court who was not pale to the lips, and whose nerves were not quivering with painful excitement. Again the reporters almost forgot their duty. In their eagerness to know what would be said they forgot to write. Suppressed sobbing was heard almost everywhere. Even the judge looked exceedingly grave, and for the moment seemed unable to decide what to say.

As for Paul, it seemed to him as though his fate hung on a delicately poised balance. The weight of a hair in either scale might decide either his life or his death. It was one of those tragic moments which seldom occur in any man's life, and it was only by a tremendous effort that he remained outwardly calm. But pride came to his aid even now. He had not shown weakness yet, and he would not show it now. He would not break down before this gaping, excited crowd, but retain quiet dignity even to the last. In spite of the intense excitement, too, he was becoming almost callous. Nature has its own way of alleviating pain, and the way she chose now to help Paul to continue to bear the dreadful strain was to numb his feelings, and to make him almost indifferent concerning what should take place. For the past few hours every nerve had been at full tension, and so greatly had he been wrought upon that he could not have remained in such a condition much longer. And so kindly Nature had lessened the pangs he was suffering, and made him able to bear to the end by her own anaesthetics.

"I quite understand your position, gentlemen," said the judge, "and I will do my best to help you. We will take the points in the order in which you mention them. First, there is the question of the knife, and in order to fully understand the sequence of this, we will again consider it from the very beginning. We must remember that the prisoner was very careful about locking his office. No one was allowed to enter it when he was absent. He kept the key in his own pocket. We have to remember, too, that his own partner declared that he knew of no one who entered the prisoner's office that day, and even if anyone entered the office, there was no one who, as far as he knew, would dare to take that knife from the prisoner's desk. The fact remains, however—and it is facts we must consider, gentlemen, and give them their due significance—the fact remains that the murdered man was found with this knife in his heart. Now, gentlemen, it is for you to decide how that knife could have left the prisoner's office. Was there someone who could have entered the office, and, with set purpose, take it away without the prisoner's knowledge, and use it in the way mentioned? Or, did the prisoner take it away himself and use it as has been described by the counsel for the prosecution? I say you must decide on this question because it is most vital. You have heard all the evidence in relation to this matter, and it is for you to decide now first whether any outsider obtained entrance into the prisoner's office and took away that knife and used it for the purpose of murder, or whether the prisoner himself took it away in the way described? That is the first point to be considered in relation to the knife. Now with regard to the ostensible difficulty which appears to you. From one standpoint, it seems utterly unlikely that a man of the prisoner's evident intellectual acumen should have used this knife, known to be his, for the purpose of murdering an enemy, and then have left it in his body in such a way that it would be inevitably traced to him. I understand your difficulty, gentlemen, and I appreciate it, and it is a point that you must keep clearly before your mind. There is, however, another side which you must also keep just as clearly in view. It is this. If the prisoner had made up his mind to do this, would not a clever man, such as he undoubtedly is, probably come to the conclusion that it would seem so absurd that he should leave the knife in the body of his victim that he might do so as a mere matter of bluff? A clever man, a far-seeing man will sometimes do things which a duller man would not do, and it is for you to decide whether these things might not have been in the mind of the prisoner when he decided to act in this way.

"You have also to consider this. It is true it has been urged that the murderous deed was uninterrupted, but we cannot be sure of this. Might not the one who struck the blow have heard approaching footsteps at the time, and then in a state of panic have rushed away? These things you must carefully consider. But the real point at issue, the vital point which you have to consider is: could anyone else have become possessed of the knife in the first place? Did anyone else become possessed of that knife? If not, then the difficulty in your minds is easy to explain.

"That is the first point. Now for the second. What you urge, and most rightly urge, too—and I fully appreciate the evident thought and care which you have bestowed upon it—is the unlikelihood of the prisoner going out at midnight to commit murder, when he had no knowledge whatever that the murdered man would not be in his own home. You say that some of you feel that his going out under such circumstances, and depending on chance as to whether he should meet him, was altogether unnatural. I will admit that you have to consider this point carefully, remembering that a man's life or death depends upon the decision at which you arrive. But there is another thought which you must keep clearly before your minds. You have no knowledge that the prisoner was not aware of the murdered man's whereabouts. They had a quarrel the previous evening. How do we know that the murdered man did not tell the prisoner something of his plans, or where he intended to be? He has not submitted himself to cross-examination, and therefore we have not been able to hear from him. Consequently, we have no knowledge that the murdered man did not, during the excited conversation, say something of his intentions, or let fall some hint whereby a man with the quick perception of the prisoner, might find out what he intended to do. If this were the case—and while there is no proof that it is so, it is not at all improbable—it would remove your difficulty. If they met, it is probable that another quarrel ensued, and then in the heat of passion the prisoner might have struck the blow which resulted in his victim's death, and then rushed away and uttered the words which the man Ashley overhead. This is all I can say on these points, gentlemen, and you have to consider, in the light of the evidence to which you have listened, whether this might be the case. As has been repeatedly said, the whole case rests upon circumstantial evidence, and it is for you carefully to consider the matter again, and may Almighty God guide you in your momentous deliberations!"

Again it was evident that the judge tried to be fair, but again his elucidation of the points at issue was deadly, as far as the prisoner was concerned. Rightly or wrongly, more than one felt that the judge had made up his mind as to the guilt of Paul Stepaside, and speaking as he did, in cold, calculated words, yet with all the authority of his position behind him, many felt that each sentence strengthened the chain of evidence which would hang the prisoner.

Paul listened without moving a muscle or uttering a sound, nevertheless his eyes were fixed upon the judge with a kind of stony stare. It seemed to him that there was a kind of malignant cunning in the judge's words, that the man was conjuring up possibilities in support of the evidence which seemed to point to him.

Again the jury retired, and a solemn silence reigned. This time there was not even the sound of whispered consultations as to what the verdict might be. It was a kind of ghastly waiting for the jurymen to return. Slowly the clock ticked on, and it seemed to be numbering the seconds of Paul Stepaside's life. And yet there were many who simply could not believe that any jury could find him guilty. Standing there alone in the dock, tall, erect, calm, his features refined by the long weeks of suffering through which he had passed, thin and pale as a consequence of his confinement and anxiety, many felt that it was impossible he should be guilty of such a bloodthirsty deed. And yet in face of the judge's summing up, in face of the terrible speech which Mr. Bakewell had delivered, it seemed as if the gallows would surely claim their victim.