As Mary looked at Paul's mother she noted the improvement in her looks. The wild, mad expression of her eyes had gone. She appeared more human, more womanly.
"Yes, read it to me," she said. "It's something about Paul, isn't it? Have they acquitted him?"
"Listen!" said Mary. "A wonderful thing's happened. What you told me was true. My father has made a confession before the court. Oh! what it must have cost him!"
"Confession? Read it! Read it!"
And Mary read, while the woman lay still and silent.
The paper which she had obtained was one of the principal Manchester evening journals. The members of its staff had, immediately after Judge Bolitho's confession, rushed eagerly to the office with their copy. Perhaps it was one of the most graphic descriptions of the scene which appeared in any journal, and caught more truly the inwardness of the event which set all Lancashire talking, than any other. Mary read the whole story from beginning to end; read the description of Paul's entrance into the prisoner's dock, the great excitement which pervaded the court as all present waited for the judge; read the description of how his lordship looked, and of the tremendous emotion under which he was labouring. It was a fine piece of journalism, done by a man who afterwards occupied a high position on one of the great London dailies. He made the scene live, made everything so real and vivid that these women, who were so terribly interested in the story, saw everything as he saw.
Paul's mother lay rigid as Mary read the judge's words, until finally she came to the confession. "This I do wish to say, here in the presence of those who have gathered together to witness this trial. Paul Stepaside is my lawful son, and, unknowingly, I have sinned against him grievously and greatly; his mother is my lawful wife. He is my lawful son, and I do here and now confess the wrong which I have done to him, and I do it because my conscience commands me to do so, and because I wish to ask my son's forgiveness."
As Mary read these words the woman rose in her bed and gave a cry of joy.
"At last! At last!" she said. "But I never thought he would do this. No, no; I never dreamed of it. He's confessed it before everyone. Don't you see, my lassie? He's confessed it there in the open court that I'm his lawful wife and that Paul is his lawful son! There's no stain upon his name now—and no stain on mine either!"
She sat up in the bed, her eyes aglow. She was radiant. She did not think of what this might mean to Mary, did not realise that the vindication of her own honour might mean Mary's shame. That never entered into her mind. All her thought was of Paul; and even her joy that all disgrace was taken away from her was because thereby Paul's name would be honoured. She looked years younger. It seemed as though a great weight had rolled from her mind, as though the dark skies had been made clear and the sun were shining.
"Are you not glad, my lassie? Does it not rejoice your heart? Think of it! Think of it!"
But Mary was silent. Naturally, the happenings of the day had bewildered her, almost unhinged her own mind. She thought, too, of what her father had suffered. No one knew better than she what a proud man he was and what it must have cost him to have made this confession. But more than all this she realised Paul's danger. Although she was greatly moved by the revelations which had been made, although her being had been aroused to its very depths and her life become revolutionised, the thought which was above every other thought was Paul's safety. She knew what her father's confession would mean. If he could no longer be the judge, then another would be appointed; and as she read her father's words she seemed to feel that he believed his son to be guilty of the deed of which he was accused. And if her father believed this, would not the judge who would try the case anew believe it also? And if the judge believed it, would not the jury believe it, and condemn him?
"What is the matter, my lassie? You don't look glad. You are pale. What do you fear?"
Even then Paul's mother did not think of what it might mean to Mary. Nothing mattered but her own son.
"But what of Paul?" Mary said. "We must save him!"
"Paul, Paul? What do you mean?"
"I am afraid," said Mary. "Do you not see what my father said? 'If Paul Stepaside is guilty of the murder of Edward Wilson——' Oh, don't you see—don't you see?"
"But they cannot harm my Paul—they cannot, they cannot!"
"But we must save him!" cried Mary. "Do you know of anything? You do, don't you? Paul never committed this murder. He couldn't do it. But unless the real murderer is found he will have to die. Don't you understand?"
"Paul die? Paul die?"
"Yes; they will condemn him unless the real murderer appears. Everyone says so. And you know who did it, don't you?"
"Do you mean to say that you think my Paul cannot get himself off?"
"Oh, don't you realise?" cried Mary. "Jurymen are stupid. They only look at the surface of things. Of course I know he didn't do it. I know he couldn't! But unless the truth comes to light, the jury will condemn him, and then, no matter who is judge, he will be hanged! Don't you see—don't you see?"
"Do you believe this?"
"I can't help believing it," replied the girl. "I've heard my father discuss law cases again and again, and I know what will happen. Won't you tell what you know? Won't you confess? For you do know, don't you?"
"But do you mean that you, who love my Paul, who believe in him, who know how clever he is, and who are sure he's innocent, do you believe that he can't clear himself?"
"How can he, when the evidence all points to him? Someone killed Ned Wilson. Someone struck the blow with Paul's knife. Don't you see? Who did it? You know!"
"I know?"
"Yes, you know. Paul is trying to shield someone; you know he is. Who is he trying to shield? He's giving his life for someone. Who would he give his life for? He's refused to go into the witness-box, refused to confide in anyone. Don't you see the meaning of it? Who is there in Brunford or anywhere else that Paul would be willing to die for?—for that is what it means. Why is he silent? You know; tell me."
The girl was wrought up to such a pitch of excitement now that she did not care what she said; neither had she any pity in her heart. She felt almost angry, too, that this woman should be so rejoiced because of what she had read to her when all the time Paul was in danger of death. What mattered name, what mattered honour, what mattered anything if Paul were pronounced guilty?
"Iknow, my lassie.Iknow," cried the woman.
"Of course you know—youmustknow. Who is Paul trying to shield, tell me that? Who went into Paul's office and got the knife? Paul did not kill Ned Wilson. Who did? Tell me that!"
She fixed her eyes on the elder woman, and there was such intensity in her look, such passion in the words she had spoken, that at length Paul Stepaside's mother guessed what was in her heart.
"You believe that Paul is shielding me?" she said quietly. "You believe that I murdered him?" and her voice was hard and stern.
"It was not Paul who did it," said Mary. "Although a thousand men were to swear they saw him do it, I would not believe them. Who did it, then?"
"And you believe that?"
"Who is Paul trying to shield?" repeated the girl, with almost monotonous iteration.
For a few seconds a painful silence fell between them, and it was evident by the look on the face of the elder woman that she was thinking deeply.
"Do you believe," and her voice was almost hoarse, "do you believe, my lassie, that Paul is lying in that gaol charged with murder because he wants to shield me?"
"What else can I believe?" cried Mary. "Tell me the truth. You say you love your son; if your love is worth anything, you will confess to the truth!"
Again a painful silence fell between them. The elder woman, who sat up in bed, seemed to be trying to realise the meaning of the other's words. She might have been living over the night of the murder again.
Presently she fixed her gaze upon Mary, and the girl saw that the old mad light was coming back into her eyes again.
"You believe that—that!" she gasped. Her body swayed to and fro for a moment, and then she fell back on the bed like one dead.
A great fear came into Mary's heart. She believed that Paul's mother, stricken to the heart by her accusation, and realising the terrible import of her silence, had been killed by her words. For a moment she did not know what to do, but, soon overcoming her weakness, she tried to restore her to life. She put her ear over the heart of the prostrate form on the bed, and gave a cry of satisfaction. "No; she's not dead, she's not dead!"
But what could she do? She was there alone in the house with this unconscious woman. She had little or no knowledge of nursing, and she did not know how to obtain help. But help she must obtain. This woman must not die—at least, before she had made her full confession. Even yet Paul's safety was the great thought in her mind. Nothing seemed to matter beside that.
There was a sound of footsteps, and she heard Mrs. Bradshaw's voice asking whether she could do anything. It seemed like Providence that the woman should have entered at this moment, and eagerly she rushed to her.
"Mrs. Stepaside is worse!" she cried. "She ought to have a doctor. Could you run and fetch one?"
"My boy's at home," said Mrs. Bradshaw. "I'll send him up to Dr. White's house at once. He's the best man in Brunford, and he's friendly with Paul, too."
"Does he live far away?"
"No, not so far. There are one or two others who live nearer, but I don't reckon much on 'em."
"Run, then, quick!" said Mary. "There's no time to be lost."
"Ay, and after I've sent Peter Matthew I'll come in again and get you something to eat. You must be fair pined."
Mary returned to the room again, and waited what seemed to her an interminable length of time, looking anxiously at the sick woman the whole time. She lay very still, almost motionless in fact, but Mary was sure she was not dead, and she prayed as she had never prayed before that she might live. As it seemed to her, it was not Paul's mother's life that hung in the balance, but Paul's.
At length Dr. White came, and went quickly into the bedroom. Dr. White was a tall, spare man, between forty and fifty years of age. He was one of those doctors who loved his profession with a love almost amounting to passion, and he had worked himself almost to a skeleton. People said that he ought to be a very rich man, but he was not. A great part of the service he rendered was a labour of love. Scores of people in Brunford wondered why he never sent a bill to them, and when he was asked the reasons for his remissness, he always put the inquirers off with a laugh. "Oh, you'll be getting it some day." The truth was he hated sending bills to poor people, and his great delight was not in receiving cheques or payment for his services, but in seeing his patients restored to health and strength again. He was almost worshipped in the town, and, indeed, no one worked so hard for the good of the people as he did in his own way.
When he entered the room he looked at Mary rather wonderingly, but asked no questions. He went straight to the patient's bedside, and examined her carefully. When he had completed his examination he turned to the young girl, who was watching him with wide, staring eyes.
"When did this happen?" he said.
Mary began to explain Mrs. Stepaside's relationship to the accused man in Manchester and of the sufferings through which she had gone.
"I know all about that," said the doctor. "But tell me the immediate cause of this."
As may be imagined, this was a difficult task, but Mary's ready wit helped her through with it.
"I brought her from Manchester this morning," she said. "She did not seem very well then, and she asked me to come with her. Then, then——" And her eyes rested upon the newspaper which she had been reading.
"Oh, I see," said the doctor. "It was a sudden shock. Yes; it's quite understandable—long weeks of suspense and agony, and then this on the top of it!" He did not ask any further questions, for Dr. White was a wise man. He knew the whole circumstances of Paul's arrest, and was therefore able to estimate the truth.
"Mrs. Stepaside has had a great shock. Of course, I need not repeat that, and she may lie like this for some days. One cannot tell the developments which will take place."
"Do you think she will die?" asked Mary anxiously.
"She's had enough to kill her, anyhow!" replied the doctor, "but she may pull through. We'll do our best. Whatever happens, nothing must be said or done to agitate her—you understand that? I fancy she will have fleeting periods of consciousness, but she must be always met with a smile. I am sure you understand this?"
"But how long will it be before—before she is allowed to talk?"
"Weeks!" replied the doctor shortly; and the word seemed like a knell of death. If Paul's mother were not allowed to speak, if she could not make her confession, then Paul might die! The thought was horrible, yet what could she do? Even if she became strong enough to speak and to make her confession, it would not be of any value. Any judge or jury would regard it as the ravings of a disordered mind.
"You're here alone," went on the doctor. "Of course I understand why you came with her," and again he looked at the newspaper which Mary had been reading.
The girl did not reply, and the doctor went on. "But you must have help. It would be madness for you to remain here alone. Of course the servants are in Manchester. They have been summoned as witnesses. But do not trouble; I'll help you. I'll send a nurse at once, and I think I can manage about the servants, too—that's the best of knowing everyone, Miss Bolitho. I'll call again in a couple of hours. Good-day."
To Mary the man's conduct seemed utterly brutal. He uttered no word of comfort. The few words he spoke were curt, almost harsh; and yet she knew he was a kind man. She continued to sit by the bed, looking at the sick woman's face, her heart filled with a great dread. She could do nothing. She must only remain there and wait and watch.
In about an hour Dr. White returned. This time there was a nurse with him. Mary did not know that he had, on leaving her, driven to the hospital at a speed which endangered the community, obtained the services of a nurse, and then came back at the same headlong pace. She did not know, either, that he had set means on foot whereby a capable woman would be secured to look after the house. Dr. White was not a man who talked much, but he did a great deal. He seemed to be pleased with the patient's condition on his return. As far as he could judge there were no evil signs.
"Now, Miss Bolitho," he said as he went away, "I want you to understand that Paul Stepaside's mother is not the only patient I have. You are another. You must go to bed immediately."
"I could not—I could not!" she cried.
"Very well, then," said the doctor. "I noticed as I came up that there was a fire in Stepaside's study. There's a comfortable sofa there. Go and lie down."
"I could not lie down!"
"But I say you can, and you must!" said the doctor. "Here, I've brought something for you."
He poured a powder into a glass of water, and bade Mary drink it. The girl obeyed him.
"Now," he said. "Come down at once."
He led her downstairs by the arm into Paul's study, and having arranged the cushions on the sofa, he insisted on her lying down. Seizing a rug, he wrapped her up in it just as a father might.
"I'm not going to have you ill," he said. "Remember that! I'll call again to-night, but not before ten o'clock. I've a busy evening before me. In less than half an hour you'll be asleep, and you'll sleep for at least three hours; then you'll wake up better. By that time some dinner will be ready for you. What a grand thing it is to have a meddling fellow who takes everything out of your hands, isn't it?" and he gave the ghost of a laugh.
A few minutes later Mary felt a sense of drowsiness creeping over her, and then became unconscious.
When she awoke again it was to find her father sitting by her side.
She started up from the couch, for the moment unable to realise the situation. At first she thought she was back in the hotel in Manchester, but in a few seconds she realised the truth.
"Father!" she exclaimed.
"Yes, Mary. I felt sure you'd come here. Directly I could get away I came as fast as I could, but the trains are terribly slow. I've only been here a few minutes."
For a few seconds there was a silence between them. Each seemed to know all that the other was thinking.
"I felt I must have a talk with you, Mary," said Judge Bolitho at length. "There are so many things to say, and so many things to do. Could I stay here to-night, I wonder? I must go back to Manchester again to-morrow morning."
"Why, father?"
"Of course you have read the newspapers. You know what took place in Manchester this morning?"
He spoke calmly and collectedly now. In one sense it seemed as though a great burden had been lifted from his mind. From the way he spoke, too, he might regard his confession as of little import.
"Father," cried the girl, "it's so bewildering, so terrible!"
"Yes, yes; I know. I've a great deal to tell you some time, Mary, but not now. You see I've passed through a great deal during the last twenty-four hours. All life has changed. What the future may bring forth God only knows. But I've done the right thing now. I sometimes think, Mary, that one of the greatest sins in life, the sin which leads the way to more than any other, is that of cowardice; and I was a coward. My God! what a coward I was! And I'm paying for it now. But for that I might have been a happy man; I might have had——"
He rose to his feet as he spoke and walked across the room. He seemed to be pondering deeply.
"Of course you despise me, Mary," he said. "You cannot help it. Everyone despises me. It's right and natural. I needn't tell you any further about it now, need I? You've read what is in the paper? You understand?"
"Yes, I think, I—I—I think I understand. But, father, we must save Paul! Whatever happens, we must save Paul!"
"If it is possible," said the judge. "For, oh! God helping me—— Yes, I should die! It would kill me if—if the worst comes to the worst! That's why I came, Mary. I must have another talk with her. I think after to-morrow I shall be free; but I must go to Manchester then, perhaps to London. There are so many formalities to be complied with. But never mind, formalities or no formalities, nothing must stand in the way of his salvation."
"He's not guilty, father; you know that? He's been shielding someone all the time. That's why he would have no one to defend him. That's why he confided in no one. I'm sure of it!"
The judge nodded his head. He, too, had been thinking deeply, and his trained mind had gone farther into the matter than that of Mary.
"Yes; I've been thinking of that," was his reply. "In fact, I felt almost sure of it when I went to see him to-day."
"You've, been to see him to-day? What? Since what you said in the court? What did he say? How did he look? Did he—did he——"
"The thing that troubles me," said the judge, interrupting, "is this—who is Paul trying to shield?"
The girl looked anxiously around the room, then went to the door and peered into the passage outside.
"Can't you think, father? Whom would he be likely to shield? I accused her of it this afternoon. I could not help it. The doctor doesn't know, but that's why she's so ill now. When she realised what I meant, she seemed like one struck down by a blow."
"You mean to say," he gasped, "that you believe Jean—that is, his mother—was——" He did not finish the sentence. It seemed too horrible, too terrible.
"No, Mary," he continued at length. "That's not it."
"But it must be, father."
"No; that's not it. Now then, tell me everything you know. You went to Dixon Street this morning; the woman told me all about it. You brought her here. You had a talk with her. Tell me everything that has taken place. You went to see Paul before the trial, too. Tell me everything."
Half an hour later Judge Bolitho was in possession, not only of all that Mary knew, but of all her suspicions and her reasons for those suspicions. He had submitted her to a very thorough cross-examination. His mind had fastened upon a hundred things of which she had taken no cognisance. He saw through the fallacies of her reasoning, and drew his conclusions accordingly. His mind was quick and active now. It seemed as though his freedom from the responsibilities of his judgeship gave him a sense of liberty. The fact that he had work to do had done something to lessen the remorse which was gnawing at his heart.
"I must go over this whole business again, Mary," he said. "Did you say that you had those Brunford papers here with you?"
"Yes, father; every one."
"And I have all the other facts since. Oh, my boy, my boy!"
"You believe you can save him?"
"I will, I will!" he cried. "I have sinned, but God will never allow me to suffer this. He could not. One thing my confession to-day will do, too—it will give me time. There's sure to be some delay before another judge is appointed, and the whole case will have to be tried again. Meanwhile I must be up and doing."
"Oh, if she were only conscious!" said Mary. "But the doctor says that perhaps she will be unconscious for weeks, and under no circumstances must she be questioned."
"Did she speak of me?" asked the judge.
"Only indirectly."
"Did she seem to despise me—hate me?"
The girl was silent, and the judge understood what her silence meant.
"It's just," he said. "It's just. But I must save Paul!"
A knock came to the door, and the woman whom Dr. White had obtained told them there was food in the dining-room.
"Thank you," said the judge. "Yes, we must eat, Mary; it seems like waste of time, but we must. And after we have had some dinner I'll read through everything again. There must be a way out. Are you well enough to run upstairs, Mary, and ask how—how—she is?"
There was a strange, yearning look in his eyes as he spoke. He might have been ashamed, too—there was indeed a change in Judge Bolitho.
"She's no worse," said Mary, coming down a few minutes later. "The nurse says she is sleeping peacefully. The doctor will be here in a little while now. He seems a very hard-hearted man, but he admires Paul greatly, and he's very clever."
During the meal both of them were silent. Each, of them had much food for thought, and there are times when words are vain.
"To think," said the judge, when they had finished their dinner, "that I should be here in this way, in my son's house, and that his mother—— Mary, bring me those papers, will you?"
A little later he was deeply immersed in the early history of the trial, noting each detail, fastening upon every weakness of the charge and the difficulties of defence. It seemed to him as though he were practising at the bar again, and he were preparing his case for the defence of the prisoner. But this time he had an interest never known to him before. It was for him to fight for the life of his own son.
Presently he heard the doctor's step on the stairs. He had been in the sick-room, and when he had finished his visit, Mary had led him to the room where her father was. Dr. White looked at the judge curiously. At each house he had called that afternoon there was but one subject of discussion. No one knew that Judge Bolitho was in Brunford; had they done so, excitement would have exceeded all bounds; but as it was, the confession which he had made had set the whole town talking.
"Will you tell me how my wife is?" asked the judge.
"Your wife?" queried the doctor.
"Yes, my wife. Will you tell me how she is?"
The doctor gave a significant glance at Mary, which the judge was not slow to interpret; but he made no sign. Now that he had made his confession and told the truth, he was the same proud man who, not long before, had been Member of Parliament for that town.
"She's very ill," said the doctor.
"But she will not die, will she?"
"Of course, that's impossible to say. She's a strong woman, but she's had—well, you know what she's had to bear."
The judge nodded. "But will she get better?"
"I do not think she will die just yet."
"What do you mean by that?"
"I think it is possible her body may recover."
"But her mind?" said the judge, noting the significance of the doctor's words.
"Concerning her mind I can promise nothing," said the doctor. "The strain she has borne for so long has been enough to drive one of her sensitive nature mad."
The judge was silent for a few seconds, then he spoke in his old, almost authoritative tones.
"Let nothing be left undone, doctor," he said. "Engage any help you think may be of value to you. You know the best man in your profession. Get into communication with him at once. We must fight, man; we must fight!"
There was a ring of defiance in his voice, and even then Mary thought how different he was from the preceding night, when she had parted from him in Manchester.
"Have you made up your mind what to do, father?" she asked, when the doctor had gone.
"Yes, I have. By the way, Mary, I know you must be longing to ask questions about yourself, but——"
"Don't trouble about me now, father. I know what you are thinking of. But my name, my future, are nothing compared with—— Oh, father, we must save Paul!"
"If it is within the realm of human possibility we will, Mary."
"And you believe it is?"
"Give me three days," said the father, "and then perhaps I can tell you."
"Father, have you discovered anything?"
"Nothing," and the judge shook his head despondently. "It seems as though every road is a cul-de-sac. I have followed up hundreds of clues, and they have all ended in nothing."
"You know what I believe, father?"
"I know, Mary; but you're wrong."
"But Paul never did it!" She seemed never to grow weary of making this assertion. No matter how strong the evidence might be, no matter what the world might say, nothing shook her.
"Branscombe thinks so."
"He has not told you, has he?"
"Oh, no. I have not said a word to him about the trial; but I've been reading the evidence this evening—you know, the case came on again this morning—and it's clear to me from his questions that he has no doubt about the matter. Things looked very black against Paul when the case was adjourned this evening."
A look of wild terror came into Mary's eyes. "But, father, don't you see?" she cried. "Paul had no secrets from his mother. He told her everything—everything. When he came home that night, after his quarrel with Wilson, he would tell the whole story to her. Afterwards—— Can't you see, father? Can't you see?"
"We've gone over this ground a hundred times," said the judge. "But it won't do, Mary. In any case, it would be impossible to make an accusation against her. No one saw her that night, and, as far as I can see, nothing can be traced to her in any way. And even if it could—— Don't you understand, Mary?"
"And will you allow Paul to be hanged?"
The judge was silent. They were sitting alone in Paul's study some days after the judge had made his confession. He had been true to his promise, and had devoted every possible moment to the elucidation of the mystery which faced him. He had brought all his knowledge of the law to bear upon it; he had utilised all his experience in the discovery of criminals; he had exerted himself to the utmost; but there was not a ray of light anywhere.
"Do you know anything? Have you heard anything more?" he asked.
"As you know," replied Mary, "she has not been fully conscious ever since that day. But I have found out something. This afternoon she has been much better, and now and then there seemed to be some return of reason."
"Well?"
"Well, her mind is full of this trial, full of the horror of Paul's situation—you can tell that from her wanderings—and this afternoon I heard her say these words: 'They make a great deal about the knife. They say no one could have got into the office; but I was in the office, and I saw the knife. Paul and I spoke about it.'"
"Yes," said the judge eagerly. "Was there anything else?"
"No, nothing more, nothing more; but surely it is enough?"
The judge was silent for a few seconds.
"If she had been able to attend as a witness this would have come out," he said. "I find that she was subpoenaed, but her illness makes it impossible for her to be there." And he gave a sigh, half of relief, half of sorrow.
"And can you do nothing, nothing?" asked Mary.
"Nothing yet," said the judge.
"But you cannot believe they will find him guilty?"
"Paul will be allowed to make a speech in his own defence. He may work wonders that way. He has done very little cross-examining to-day, but that may be part of his method. I think he's going to rely on his analysis of evidence. It's not an unsound process. Cross-examinations ofttimes mean very little. Justice Hawkins, you may remember, when he was practising at the Bar, used to depend almost entirely on his closing speech, and he won more cases than perhaps any other man. Still, we must not depend upon that. Nothing shall be left undone, Mary."
"Father, I'm going to see Paul."
"Better wait, better wait," he replied. "I am afraid a visit from you would do him more harm than good. You'd have to tell him about his mother's illness."
"I'm going to write to him to-night, anyhow," said Mary.
"But tell him nothing that will pain him, Mary."
When Mary left the room Judge Bolitho nearly lost control over himself. The days were slipping away, and nothing had been done. In spite of every inquiry he had made, he seemed to be getting no nearer to the solution he sought for. Like Mary, he was convinced that Paul had never done the deed; and yet, unless the murderer could be discovered, he could not close his eyes to Paul's face. For more than an hour he went over the whole miserable story again, connecting link with link, incident with incident, opinion with opinion. Still the same blank wall met him.
"I can't stay indoors any longer," he muttered. "I must get out into the open air."
It was now about nine o'clock, and, almost heedless whither he went, he found his way into the heart of the town. Judge Bolitho had by this time become an almost familiar figure among the people of Brunford. He had gone all over the town making inquiries. He had spent much time in the neighbourhood of Paul's factory making investigations. He had talked with all sorts of people, and all, knowing what he desired, had told him everything they knew. But still the secret remained a secret.
Presently he found himself in the market-place, where there were excited groups of people discussing that day's trial. The judge wandered from one group to another listening eagerly. A large ulster almost covered his face, for the nights were very cold, and but few recognised him. It seemed to be the settled conviction among the people that Paul's case was hopeless. At length he heard someone speaking who attracted his attention strangely. It was not because of what he said, but because of the unfamiliar accent which the judge immediately recognised. The man was a Scotsman, and he spoke with the accent common to that district where Jean was reared. The judge drew nearer and listened attentively.
"I tell you," said the man, "I saw this Bolitho when he was but a lad. My brother, Willie Fearn, courted Jean, and it was Bolitho who took her away from him. Ye dinna believe me? Am I not called Archie Fearn? Ay, but I know."
The men to whom he spoke laughed incredulously.
"Yo've been drinking too much Scotch whisky," said one with a laugh.
"I can carry more whisky than any man in Brunford," was his reply. "I was ne'er a steady, God-fearing man like my brother Willie. It might have been better for me if I had been. He's a rich man the noo, while I have to come to this dirty hole to get a living. Ay, I know more about this business than you think."
At this there was much incredulous laughter, and then Judge Bolitho heard the man cry out something about his having seen someone on the very night of the murder. The conversation was not by any means connected, but Judge Bolitho, anxious to catch at any straw, determined not to allow the Scotsman to escape him. It might end in nothing; still, there was possibly something in what the man had said.
A few minutes later Archie Fearn left his companions, evidently with the purpose of making his way to a public-house which stood at the corner of the Market Square. Before he reached it, however, the judge had come up to him and touched his arm.
"So you call yourself Archie Fearn now, do you?" he said quickly.
"Ay, and who dares say I'm not Archie Fearn?" replied the man. "Was I no born in Scotland? And do I not speak like a Scotsman?"
"You did not call yourself Archie Fearn the last time I saw you," said the judge.
"And when might ye have seen me?"
"I saw you in Liverpool two years ago. You called yourself John McPhail then, and it was my duty to give you six months with hard labour."
The man looked at the judge coolly. "Ay, very likely," he replied. "Ay, I remember noo, I remember noo," and he laughed significantly.
"Why do you laugh?" asked the judge.
"I was thinking," was the reply. "I think of mony things. The Scotch are a canny people. You'll be knowing that yourself, my lord."
"And you say you're Willie Fearn's brother?" said the judge.
"Ay, I am and all. It's perfectly true that Willie is an elder in the kirk, while I am—weel, what you see me; but, for all that, I know more about the fundamentals of doctrine than he does. I know the second catechism by heart, and I could put any meenister in this toon to shame. Ay, man, but if you want to hear preaching you must go to Scotland. It's there that the meenisters are groonded in the faith. In these English kirks they are very lax in the faith." And again the man laughed as though something amused him.
"You seem to boast a good deal of your knowledge," said the judge, trying to estimate the man.
"I ne'er boast," was the reply. "I'm just a canny Scotsman, that's all. If I told all I kenned—weel, I might become popular. But a still tongue makes a wise heid."
"If you are Willie Fearn's brother," said the judge, and it pained him to say what next passed his lips, but as I have said, he was eager to catch at any straw, "you knew Jean Lindsay?"
"Ay, I kenned her weel," was the reply. "But I was aboot to go into the 'Hare and Hoonds,' Mr. Judge Bolitho. Perhaps for the sake of the time when you called yourself Graham you might like to give me a drop of whisky?"
"Come with me," said the judge. "I want to talk with you. If we go up Liverpool Road it will be quiet there. But stay, come with me to the house I'm staying at."
"Dootless you keep a bottle of good whisky in the cupboard there?"
"You shall not regret going," said the judge, and he led the way to Paul's house.
Half an hour later the two sat together in Paul's study. During their walk thither the man of the law had been thinking deeply. He had been trying to piece together the conversation he had heard in the market-place, trying to understand the significance of what Archie Fearn had said. He had no great hope of important revelations, but a lifetime of legal training and practice had proved to him that oft-times the greatest issues depended on the most trivial circumstances, and he could not afford to allow the most insignificant happening to pass by unnoticed.
"How long have you been in Brunford?" asked the judge.
"Since a month before Christmas," was the reply.
"You came here to get work?"
"I came here because I wasn't known in the toon, and because I thought I might be able to pick up an odd sax-pence."
"You say you knew Jean Lindsay when she was a girl?"
"Syne I expected her to be my ain sister-in-law, it was very natural that I should," was the reply.
"Do you think you'd know her again if you saw her?"
"I kenned her the moment I saw her in the streets of this toon, not long before Christmas," was the reply.
"You saw her then?"
"Ay, I did. I saw her and recognised her, just as I recognised you. But it took me longer to mak you oot. Although, as you say, you gave me six months in Liverpool, did not, at that time, connect you with my ain hame. But when I saw your picture as large as life in the house where I lodged, I began to put things together. When I saw you in Liverpool you had your big wig on, and your judge's goon, that's what put me off there, I expect. But in your picture you looked more natural, and I said: 'That's the lad who took away my brother Willie's lass.'"
The judge's mind was working quickly by this time, and he saw that the incident might have great possibilities.
"And you say you saw Jean in the streets of Brunford?"
"Ay, I did."
"And did you speak to her?"
"Nay, not at the time. The sight of her gave me a shock, as you may say. But as I tell't you, the Scots are a canny race, so I asked a man in the street who she was, and he told me she was Mrs. Stepaside, and that led to other inquiries, till presently I found out all there was to know."
"And what then?" asked the judge.
"Your lordship is a rich man," replied Archie. "And you'll not be expecting me to tell all I know for nothing. And I'm in sair need of a drop of whisky, too!"
The judge took a couple of sovereigns from his pocket.
"When you tell me all you know, you shall have these," he said.
The Scotsman's eyes glittered greedily. "Two sovereigns; weel, it's a sma' sum, a sma' sum for the likes of you, and I think I can say something that will interest you, too. In Scotland we think a great deal of a five-poon note!"
"Very well," said the judge. "If you know anything worth telling me, and you speak plainly, you shall have the five-pound note."
"Of course, your lordship is a fair-minded man as far as money is concerned? I'll say nothing about anything else," and again the Scotsman laughed like one enjoying himself.
"You'll have to trust me for that," said the judge. "In any case, if you speak freely I'll give you the two sovereigns. If I judge your information to be important you shall have the five-pound note."
"It's this way," said Archie Fearn, "—and I think your lordship will see that what I have to tell ye is worth five poons, although I doot whether ye'll be pleased—when I discovered all aboot Jean, and what people were saying aboot her, and when I had made up my mind aboot Mr. Bolitho, who was at one time the Member of Parliament for this toon, I fell to thinking, and I was not long in assuring myself that Mr. Bolitho was the same lad who came to the Highlands lang years syne as Douglas Graham. Of course, I had heard a great deal about Paul Stepaside, and being, as I tell't ye, a reasoning man, I put two and two together. So I sent a letter to Jean, and asked her to meet me."
"A likely story!" said the judge.
"Like or not, it's true. And more than that, she came to see me on the very night that young Wilson was murdered, so noo then!"
"Then you spoke to her that night?"
"Ay, I did. I thought to myself, 'Now that Jean has plenty of siller she'll be glad to know the truth!'"
"And you told her the truth?"
"Ay, I did. I showed her your photograph which I'd brought with me. We were standing under a street-lamp, and I showed it to her. And there's not the slightest doot but she recognised you."
"What time was that?" asked the judge.
"It were late," said the man. "It must have been well after eleven o'clock."
"How long was she with you?"
"A goodish time, for she had many questions to ask, and we talked a good deal about old times. And I was not long in convincing her of the truth, I can tell ye. Ay, man, but you should have seen her face when she looked at your photograph. 'Oh, that's he, that's he!' she said."
"And then," said the judge, "did she come back here alone?"
"Nay, I walked back with her. Do ye think I'd be likely to allow a lass who was to have been my ain sister-in-law to come hame alone?"
"In what part of the town did you meet?"
"It was near the part they call Howden Clough."
"And at what hour did you return?"
"Oh, it must have been after midnight. You see," went on the Scotsman imperturbably, "I asked her to come and see me, and I fixed a late hour because I thought—weel; she might be a little more leeberal late at night than in the middle of the day. I have made a profound study of women, and I was in want of money at the time, and I thought I could make a better bargain with her. That's why I fixed a late hour for meeting. But I brought her home safely, and left her at the door here. It must have been in the early hours of the morning when I left her."
"Did you come into the house?"
"No; in that I thought Jean didn't act like an old neighbour should—seeing that at one time she was likely to be my sister-in-law! She didn't ask me in. Still, she seemed very grateful for the information I gave her."
"And you saw her go into the house early in the morning, you say?"
"Ay, I did."
"And then, did you go away immediately?"
"Nay, I waited out of curiosity for a few minutes. I heard the door snick, and then I waited until I saw a light in her bedroom. I said to myself, 'Jean will have a good deal to think about to-night.' I didn't think then that things would be so unfavourable to me."
"What do you mean?" asked the judge.
"Well, being, as I tell't you, a Scotsman, and a canny Scotsman at that, I naturally thought that the man who had discovered her husband for her would have a slight claim on her when she came into her own."
"Ah, I see," said the judge.
For more than an hour they sat talking, the Scotsman cool and self-contained, the judge asking keen, searching questions.
Presently Archie Fearn wended his way towards the part of the town where he had a lodging. "It's a peety the public-houses are all closed," he said, as he lovingly felt the five-pound note which the judge had given him. "Still, there's a to-morrow; and it may be I've done a good night's work after all."
As for the judge, he sat for a long time thinking. The house was now in silence. Everyone had gone to bed. He went upstairs and listened outside Mary's bedroom door. Evidently his daughter had retired. He went to the door of the room where his wife lay. All was silent. Then he came downstairs again.
"I am in my son's house," he said to himself, "and he—he's lying in Strangeways Gaol! I wonder whether, after all, this night may not mean a great deal. Anyhow, it's narrowed the circle of inquiry. It proves Jean was guiltless of this thing, and Mary altogether mistaken. I wonder what she will say when I tell her!"
The following morning he related to Mary what had happened on the previous night; told her in detail all that the man Fearn had said to him.
"You see, Mary," he said, "your suspicions were utterly wrong. The man's story has made it practically impossible for what you have thought to be true. Whoever committed the deed, it was not she—thank God for that!"
In spite of herself Mary was at length convinced. For hours she sat thinking over what her father had told her, considering the consequences of every point, and trying to see what they meant. Yes, he was right; and yet she felt sure that Paul believed in his mother's guilt, and that the reason of his silence was that he was trying to shield her. Then the old question came back to her. Paul did not commit this deed; who did it?
Presently Mary Bolitho gave a start as though some new thought had come into her mind. Her eyes flashed with a bright light. She seemed to see something which in the past had been hidden from her.
A few minutes later she was in the street, walking rapidly to Paul's factory. Arrived there, she asked for George Preston.
"He's in Manchester," was the reply. "He's there for the trial."
"But someone must be left in charge?" she urged.
"Ay, Enoch Standring is looking after things while they're away."
"I want to see him," said Mary. "Where is he?"
Without a word the youth to whom she had spoken led the way to Paul's office, where Enoch Standring was busily writing.
"I am Miss Bolitho," she said to the young man. "Perhaps you know me?"
"Yes," replied the other. "I know you very well by sight. What can I do for you?"
"You will naturally understand," said Mary, "that I am keenly interested in—in the trial in Manchester?"
"Naturally," said the young man.
"I suppose," said the girl, "you have in your books a record of all the people you employ?"
"Certainly."
"When they are engaged and when they leave?"
"Certainly—that is, we put their names down in a book when they come, and cross them off when they cease working for us."
"And you have all these books at hand?"
"Certainly," replied Standring. He was proud of the way in which the books of the firm of Stepaside and Preston were kept.
"How many hands do you employ?"
Standring told her.
"Will you let me see your books?"
"It's not usual," replied Standring. "You see, it's the wage-book, and the account is kept there of the amount each person earns."
"But I'm sure you will let me see it?" said Mary, looking at the young man with a smile. "Believe me, I do not ask without serious reason!"
The young man hesitated a few seconds and then put the books before her. "Here they are," He said. "Every name is put down here, and what each has earned."
"I want to see the pages for the month of December," said Mary. "By the way, do you often discharge your hands?"
"We never discharge anyone except for a serious reason," said Standring.
"Have you discharged anyone since—since—Mr. Stepaside went to Manchester?"
"No," said Standring. "You see, there was no reason. Business has gone on just the same as ever."
The girl looked eagerly down the list, and noted each name and the wages paid, while Standring watched her suspiciously. He wondered what this girl could mean by wanting to examine the wage-book.
"Do you keep on names after the people have ceased working for you?"
"Not after they've been discharged. There, you see, that man was discharged early in December. His name was crossed out. It doesn't appear the following week. On the other hand, if anyone is taken ill, we keep their names on, although they may not work. There, you see, Eliza Anne Bolshawe, she was taken ill at the beginning of December, but we kept on her name; the second week in December, no wages; the third week, no wages; the fourth week she came back again, and there's the amount she earned put opposite her name."
"I see," said Mary.
At that moment someone came into the office. "You're wanted in the mill, Enoch," said the visitor.
"Pray do not let me keep you, Mr. Standring," said Mary. "I'll do no harm while you're away." And she gave him a smile which removed any doubts which he might have had concerning leaving her alone.
Eagerly Mary went on examining the books, until presently her hands began suddenly to tremble. It seemed as though the idea which had been born in her mind were bearing fruit. Snatching a piece of paper from the office desk, she began to write rapidly.
When Enoch Standring returned, Mary was still busily examining the books, but the piece of paper on which she had made her notes was put out of sight.
"Have you seen what you want, Miss Bolitho?" said Standring.
"Yes, I think so," said Mary, "and I must congratulate you on the way these books are kept. The penmanship is perfect, and everything is clear, and easy to understand. I am sure Mr. Stepaside will be pleased with everything when he returns."
Standring looked at her sadly. He was one of those who believed that Paul Stepaside would never be acquitted, and he wondered what the future might bring forth.
When Mary returned to the house, she took the piece of paper from her pocket and looked at the notes she had made.
"I wonder, I wonder!" she said. "At any rate, I'll go and see her. Brunclough Lane, Brunclough Lane," she repeated to herself. "27 Brunclough Lane."
Heedless of the fact that she had had no food since the morning, she went out again, and presently found herself in a long narrow street where all the houses partook of the same character, each jutting on the causeway. At one of the corner houses she saw the words, "Brunclough Lane." Her heart was beating wildly, and she was excited beyond measure. The more she reflected, the more she became convinced of the importance of what she had done. She told no one of what she was thinking, or of the chain of reasoning which had led her to go to Paul's office that morning. But she had not acted thoughtlessly. Her father's account of the meeting with Archie Fearn, and what the man had said to him, had altogether changed her plans. Hitherto she could not help acting on the assumption that Paul's mother was guilty of this dread deed, consequently all her inquiries had been influenced by this belief. Up to now they had ended in nothing, even as had those of her father. Directly she had become convinced, however, that Paul's mother could have known nothing of the murder, and that on the very night when it took place her mind must naturally have been filled with other things, she saw that she must go on entirely different lines. As a consequence of this she had made her seemingly unaccountable visit to Paul's office, and had made what Standring regarded as an almost unprecedented request, to examine the wage-books. When she had gone, Standring went through those same books again. He was trying to discover Mary's motive in all this, and was wondering whether she suspected him of immoral practice in relation to the wages of the operatives. No suspicion of the truth, however, entered his mind, and although many curious eyes watched her as she came into Brunclough Lane that afternoon, no one dreamed of her reason for going there.
She was not long in finding the number she sought. A hard-featured woman, about forty-five years of age, came to the door in response to her knock.
"Does Emily Dodson live here?"
"Ay," said the woman, looking at her suspiciously. "And who might yo' be?"
"I'm Mr. Paul Stepaside's sister," said Mary.
The woman did not speak, but looked at her visitor suspiciously. Had Mary been watching her face just then, she would have noted that her eyes seemed to contract themselves, and that her square jaw became set and defiant.
"Are you Emily Dodson's mother?"
"Ay, I am."
"Is she in now?"
The woman looked up and down the street like one afraid, but answered quietly, "Ay, she is."
"I'm given to understand," said Mary, "that she was one of my—that is, Mr. Stepaside's workpeople?"
The woman was silent.
"Is she ill?"
"What's that to yo'?"
To a South country person the woman's attitude might have seemed rude, but a Lancashire man would have regarded her answers to Mary's questions as natural. As I have before stated, there is nothing obsequious in a Lancashire operative's behaviour. They are rough, oft-times to the point of rudeness, although no rudeness is meant. Possibly this woman might have regarded Mary's visit as a piece of impertinence. If a neighbour had come, that neighbour would have been received kindly, but Mary's appearance suggested that she did not belong to the order of people who lived in that street, and there were many who resented anything like what seemed interference.
"But your daughter is not very well, is she?"
"I never said owt o' th' so'ort."
"I hear she's not been at work for several weeks, and as Mr. Stepaside is unable to attend to business just now, I thought I might be of some service."
The woman laughed sourly. "Ay, you're Bolitho's lass, are you?" she said. "A pretty tangle things have got into; and what I want to know is if, as newspapers say, according to the confession your feyther made on the Bench, he married Paul's mother, where do yo' come in?"
Mary's face blanched, not only because of the woman's words, but because of the look she gave her. Still she held on her way.
"I'm naturally interested in the people Mr. Stepaside has employed," she said, "and as I am given to understand that she's been unable to work for several weeks, I thought I might be of service."
"I'm noan asking for charity," replied the woman.
"No, I know," replied Mary. "Still, if your daughter is out of employment she won't be earning anything, and I thought if I could be of any help to you——"
"I want no 'elp. I never asked anyone for charity yet, and never took none owther, and I'm noan going to begin now."
There was a defiant ring in the woman's voice, and Mary realised that here was one of those strong, determined characters who are not easily moved, and which are not rare among the Lancashire operatives.
"But if your daughter is ill," went on Mary, "she must be lonely. Has she had the doctor, may I ask?"
"Would you mind my telling you, miss, that that's noan o' your business. If our Emily has no mind to work, she'll noan work. Good afternoon." And the woman closed the door in her face.
As Mary turned to walk away she noticed that a number of people were watching her, as if wondering what she should be doing there. But no one spoke to her, and presently she found herself again near Paul's home, pondering deeply over what had taken place. She recalled every word that had been spoken, every question she had asked, and every answer the woman had given. She had said nothing that might arouse any suspicions, and her action was quite natural. She had simply gone to ask after one of Paul's employees, and therefore no one could attach undue importance to her visit, although they would be naturally curious to know why she went. During the time she had canvassed these people, when her father was candidate for Brunford, she had got to know many of their characteristics and to understand their methods of thinking, and this fact helped her to form her conclusions now, helped her to know how to act under the circumstances by which she was surrounded.
When she reached the house she asked for her father, and was informed that he was not in. He had left early that morning and had not yet returned. Hour after hour Mary sat alone, thinking, planning, wondering. She was afraid to attach too much importance to what had taken place that day, yet she felt sure that what she had seen and heard was not without meaning. But she felt her inexperience greatly. Oh, if her father would only come!
Presently a telegram was brought to her. Eagerly she opened it and read the contents. She saw that it was sent from Manchester, and it told her that her father was returning by the last train, and that there was no need for her to wait up for him.
Mary seized a time-table that lay on the table, and saw that the last train arrived at Brunford at eleven o'clock. There were four long, weary hours to wait, but she could not think of going to bed. Consequently, when Judge Bolitho returned that night he found his daughter awaiting him.
"Has something happened, Mary?" he said, as he noticed the look in her eyes.
"Have you found out anything?" she asked.
He shook his head sadly. "Nothing," he said. "I am afraid the trial has gone against Paul to-day too. I suppose it'll end to-morrow. Paul is to give his speech for his defence then. I wish I could be there; but I cannot; I dare not interfere in any way. It would prejudice his case too."
"Father," she said, "listen to me."
"Have you discovered anything?"
"I don't know yet," she said. "Listen."