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

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

"Is your office situated close to his?"

"Not far away."

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

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

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

"No, I can remember no one."

"Were you in it that day yourself?"

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

"And you met that morning?"

"Yes."

"Did you happen to see the knife?"

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

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

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

"What reason?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

At the close of this evidence Paul gave a sigh, seemingly of relief.

This might seem strange, for every word that had been spoken had seemed to fasten the guilt more securely on himself. Presently he was asked whether he wished to make a statement, and again all present were struck by his demeanour. His face was very pale, and his eyes had a peculiar light in them, but otherwise he showed no excitement or fear.

His voice was perfectly steady; his lips did not quiver; his hands did not tremble. The evidence against him was as black as night. Indeed, no one seemed to have any doubt as to the finding of the jury--but he did nothing to clear himself. It is true, he declared emphatically that he had no hand in killing the deceased man; he also said that when he had last seen the knife it was lying on his office desk, but he made no endeavour to show how it might have been taken away without his knowledge.

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

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

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

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

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

Preston's face was pale as ashes. He could scarcely speak. "I couldn't help it," he said.

"Nay, I suppose not. But it seemed to me that every answer tha gave was another strand in the rope which shall hang him."

"G.o.d knows," said Preston, "if I could have answered in any other way than I did I would have done so."

"Then tha doesna believe he did it?"

"I don't know what to believe. I know he hated Wilson. I know they've been at daggers drawn for years, but I can't believe that Paul did it that way. He isn't that kind of man. Besides, it doesn't stand to reason that he should have taken the knife that was known to be his to do such work."

"That's where I'm stalled."

"And yet, what could I do? As far as I know, n.o.body did go into the office, and n.o.body could take it without his knowing."

"We've noan heard the last on it yet. Things'll come to light."

"Ay," whispered another man in another part of the room. "'He that hateth his brother is a murderer'--that's Scripture, ain't it? And Paul hated Wilson. Besides, he had no faith in owt. He believed in neither G.o.d nor devil. Ay, it's a sad thing when a chap's given up faith in religion."

And so men talked, while many shook their heads and wondered. Many did not believe in his guilt, and yet when the question was asked as to who could be guilty if not he, no reply was given.

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

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

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

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

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

"When will that be?"

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

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

CHAPTER XVI