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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yes, sir," replied the girl.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

For a moment he was tempted to say "Yes," but only for a moment. It was no use. What would be the good of blinds? Every one would know.

Even now he saw groups of people in the street, talking excitedly, while more than one looked curiously at the cab in which he rode. He had no doubt that reporters were near, eager to get a sensational account for the local papers. It would be a G.o.dsend to them. Paul Stepaside, Member of Parliament for Brunford, the man who had been spoken of as the idol of the people--he, whose one speech in the House of Commons had given him an almost national reputation, would now be notorious for one of the foulest deeds of which a man is capable.

Still, he did not lose control over himself. He sat quietly, grimly, thoughtfully. There was that in his heart which he dared not reveal, and which at all hazards must be kept buried.

Presently the cab reached the Town Hall. A number of loafers were hanging around, while many had gone so far as to leave their work in order not to miss such a sight. It was not like an ordinary murder.

Ned Wilson was the son of one of the most prominent men in the district; and Paul Stepaside, who had come to Brunford only a few years before, had become the most noted man in the town--and now it had come to this! A few minutes later he found himself in a cold, dark cell.

Of what he thought during the many hours he remained there it is not easy to tell, but that he felt the terror of it and the grim tragedy which pervaded everything can be easily realised. He was apprehended for murder, and he had been taken to that gloomy cell because of it.

Of course, the reasons were plain enough, and as far as he could see, the police officials could not evade their duty. The long-standing feud between himself and Wilson was well known. Many threats had been uttered on both sides, while the quarrel which had taken place the previous night had evidently become public property. It seemed to him as though the hand of Fate had been at work in order to encompa.s.s his ruin. Of course, he was innocent of the deed. He had never struck Ned Wilson the blow which deprived him of life; nevertheless, every circ.u.mstance seemed to point to him; and, to crown all, it was his knife that had been found in Wilson's heart.

During the time he had been in the cab he had been thinking of the means he should use to clear himself, for he felt sure he could do so.

Sitting alone in the cell, however, this became impossible. Such a terror as he had never known before filled his heart. He believed he knew who had committed this ghastly deed, but his lips must be sealed.

He must not tell; he would rather die than tell of what he knew. His mother, out of love for him, and with a desire to be revenged upon the man who had been his enemy, had, in her mad pa.s.sion, taken away his life.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Again he went over the whole miserable story, and tried to see whether he had not been mistaken in the suspicion which haunted his brain, but he saw no loophole anywhere. Who could have committed the deed but she? There was the fact of the knife, the fact of the wild threats she had uttered, the fact of her going out into the night alone, the fact that when he returned in the morning he had found her in an almost hysterical state of mind in her bedroom, the fact that his knife was buried in Wilson's heart. No, no; there could be no doubt about it.

He did not love her the less, rather the more. He did not regard her as a murderess, and yet he felt sure it was she, even although he lay there apprehended for one of the foulest deeds man could commit.

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

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

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

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

The results of the magistrates' sitting were, of course, inevitable.

No bench of magistrates could do other than they were obliged to do.

He had set up no defence nor made any statement. Paul Stepaside was remanded, and sent to Strangeways Gaol in Manchester to await the coroner's inquest.

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

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

Hour after hour he sat in Strangeways Gaol, thinking and wondering.

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

He was not a coward, and he had steeled his heart against the worst.

Death he did not fear; but even although he believed that to no man who was dead was there any life hereafter, and, as a consequence, he would know nothing of what took place, he dreaded the thought of disgrace.

He knew that throughout the whole land his portrait would be printed in a thousand papers. He knew he would be discussed by people whom he despised. He knew that his name would be a byword and a hissing in the country, while his mother---- But no, he would not think of her.

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

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