The tones of his voice gathered in strength and condemnatory intonation as he proceeded, and when he had finished it seemed to many as though he were the judge and those to whom he spoke were criminals. More than one of the jury, who had been unconvinced, but who had given way to the opinions of others, felt as though his words were true. They shuddered as he spoke, and it seemed to them that they were guilty, even as he said they were.

But the word had gone forth and could not be recalled. When once a jury, after careful deliberation, has uttered the verdict of "Guilty,"

that verdict is final. Even although the judge were convinced of Paul's innocence, he could only p.r.o.nounce sentence of death. In that respect he was no more responsible than the hangman who had to fasten the rope around his neck. Each would play his part in the grim tragedy, and each would have to do so, because he had accepted the responsibilities of his office.

It was evident that the judge was greatly wrought upon. His hands trembled, his face was haggard, and in his eyes was an expression that looked like fear. He turned for a moment and saw that the chaplain was standing behind him, a pale, cadaverous-looking man indeed, a veritable death's-head.

The judge put on the black cap.

"Paul Stepaside," he said, "you have this day been found guilty of wilful murder. The jury have, upon the evidence given, pa.s.sed that verdict upon you," he stopped. He had seemed on the point of saying something else, but was unable to do so. Perhaps, as is often the case, he was going to preach him a homily upon a wasted life, or upon a career cut off in the middle, destroyed by an act of brutal pa.s.sion, but he did not do so. Perhaps there was something in Paul's face which forbade him. Perhaps he almost feared the scornful smile which was on Paul's lips, and the steady look in his eyes.

A painful silence followed, a silence of nearly a minute, and then the judge p.r.o.nounced his sentence.

"You will be taken from this place to the place from whence you came, and from there to the place of execution, and there you will be hanged by the neck until you are dead, and your body will be buried in the precincts of the prison where you will have been confined after your conviction, and may the Lord have mercy on your soul."

He spoke the words in slow, measured tones, and with deathly impressiveness. Although he was a little man, his voice was deep, almost sonorous, and thus when the chaplain followed him with a thin, piping voice, "Amen!" there was something so incongruous in the contrast that many who had been wrought up to a high state of excitement felt like giving way to hysterical laughter. Nevertheless, the utmost silence prevailed, until Paul spoke again.

"Thank you, my lord," he said. "I am an innocent man, and when my time comes, I will meet death as an innocent man should!"

For a moment he looked around the court, scanned the faces of those present with an expression almost like curiosity. It seemed as if he realised he was looking at them for the last time. It was a look of farewell. He was no longer a prisoner, he was a condemned man. He nodded to some of the people whom he had known in Brunford, and then, with a proud smile, he left the box, under the vigilance of two policemen, who led him to the condemned cell.

CHAPTER XXVIII

PAUL'S MOTHER AND MARY

When Mary Bolitho left her father on the night following the first day of the trial, she was naturally much excited. She could not understand the great change which had come over him. Never before had she known him to be so much moved by any case with which he had to do. She wondered why it was, and in the solitude of her room began to think of reasons. Had he learnt something about Paul of which she was ignorant?

Had he discovered the real murderer? She had sat throughout the day's trial, and no word had fallen, no argument of whatever sort had been urged, that in the slightest degree shook her faith in the man she loved.

She quickly dismissed this from her mind, however. Whatever her father's conduct might mean, she saw no sign that he believed in Paul's innocence. Still, her conversation with him caused all sorts of fancies to flash through her brain, and, sitting down before her fire, she, for the thousandth time, tried to think of means whereby she could save him.

"I must save him; I must!" she said to herself. "Paul knows of something which he refuses to tell me. He is shielding someone."

Naturally she knew nothing of what her father had learnt that night, had no suspicion of the revelations which, when they became known to her, would destroy the thousand fancies which she had cherished and revolutionise her life. The one dominant thought in her mind was that the man whom, in spite of herself, she had learnt to love, was charged with murder, and that unless something was done to nullify the evidence which had been brought to court that day he would have to pay the penalty with his life. Paul, for some reason unknown to her, would not use the means she was sure he had in his power in order to save his life. Of course it was pure surmise on her part, but she was perfectly certain of it; and what he would not do she must do.

Throughout the evening she had been reading the Brunford papers, in which the whole story had been described. Paul's first appearance before the magistrates; the coroner's inquest; and, again, the second appearance before the local justices; and his final committal. No detail of these reports had escaped her notice, and now, after her talk with her father, she again set herself to consider the whole question, determined, at whatever hazards, to save her lover.

Finally her mind fastened upon two or three thoughts, and these thoughts became the centre around which everything revolved. To begin with, Ned Wilson was murdered. Next, Paul Stepaside, who was being tried for that murder, was guiltless of it; that also was a settled conviction in her mind. Who, then, was guilty? Someone must have done the deed, but who? In whatever light murder could be considered, it was something ghastly beyond words. The person who had driven Paul's knife into the murdered man's heart must have had a terrible motive.

What could that motive have been? Who would be likely to do it? Who had a motive sufficiently strong to commit such a crime? She thought of one person after another, realising all the time that her imaginings were vain. Yet she knew that it was in this direction that the truth, if it were to be discovered, must be found.

She went over the whole story of the knife, and remembered the deadly words which the counsel for the prosecution had uttered about it. The knife was known to belong to Paul. It was lying in his office, an office which he always locked when he left it. She remembered that Paul's partner had sworn that he knew of no one who would be likely to, or, indeed, could, enter the office and take it away without Paul's knowledge and consent. And yet someone must have done so, for she was still certain that Paul had never done the deed.

Presently she began to think of the question from another standpoint.

She had told Paul that he was trying to shield someone. She did not attach much importance to it at the time, but now its consequence became very real. If her surmise were true, then Paul would rather suffer death himself than tell what he knew. She had pleaded with him, only as a woman moved by a great love could plead. With her arms round his neck and her eyes fastened on his she had besought him to tell the truth, and he had been silent. Only the strongest of all reasons could have kept him silent.

Her heart gave a great leap. With that swift intuition of which only a woman is capable her mind leapt to its conclusion. There was only one person in the world besides herself whom Paul loved dearly, and that was his mother.

Like lightning she began to connect the evidence, and it seemed to her that at last she had found the key to unlock the mystery. It was for his mother's sake that Paul was bearing the shame and was suffering the torments of a man accused of murder. She felt sure she had found the truth, and she was at last in a position to save his life. Everything fitted in with the thought which had so suddenly flashed into her mind.

Who would have free access to Paul's office? His mother. Why should he refuse to engage a counsel to defend him? Because he feared to incriminate his mother. Again she read the evidence at the coroner's inquest, and noted each point. And she saw, or thought she saw, evidence in every word he had uttered of his endeavour to keep all thoughts from being directed to her.

Presently, however, difficulties began to appear before her mind. What motive could she have had to do this deed? Again her mind worked swiftly. She was, according to all she had heard of her, a pa.s.sionate woman. She loved Paul with all the strength of her being. For him she had toiled. For him she had suffered. And it was the gossip of the town that Paul's mother loved her son with a wild and almost unreasoning love. She knew of Ned Wilson's enmity towards Paul, knew how he had persecuted him through the years. Possibly, probably, she knew of her son's love for herself, Mary Bolitho; knew, too, that gossip had connected her own name with that of Ned Wilson. Of course, a great deal of it was surmise, but everything pointed to the one fact.

Besides, Paul, on his return home after his quarrel with Wilson, would probably tell her about it. He would not be able to hide his wounded forehead. The blood would be trickling down his face, and she would ask him questions about it. Would not a vindictive, pa.s.sionate woman such as she was said to be, seek to avenge her son? And, of course, Paul would discover everything. The evidence of the servants had proved that Paul had left the house during the night. Why? Yes, that was it. Of course, he would do everything to keep even a shadow of suspicion from resting upon her. It would be like him to do so.

Paul's mother had come back, and he had discovered what she had done.

That would explain the mystery of the knife. Paul, even though he might have so far yielded to the spirit of revenge as to kill his enemy, would never leave a knife in his victim's body known to be his, and which could be identified and traced to him. But a woman was different, especially such a woman as Paul's mother. Of course, there were motives which she could not understand, thoughts in her mind which were yet hidden from her; but this was the key, this would unlock the door of the mystery, and this would save her lover's life. No, no; much as Paul might love his mother, much as he owed to her, she could not allow him to suffer death in his mother's stead. It was too horrible.

She called to mind the scene she had witnessed that morning. She remembered being startled by the face of the woman who found her way into the court. She had seen the look of madness in her eyes as she looked first at Paul and then at her father. After which she uttered the scream of a maniac and then fell to the ground.

Another thought struck her. Was Paul's mother sane? Would not this account for the difficulties which, in spite of everything, she could not explain away? If she were mad, and carried away by the pa.s.sion which had been aroused by Wilson's attack on her son, would she not, regardless of consequences, commit this deed of which Paul was accused?

Again and again she considered the circ.u.mstances, pondered over each fact, weighed every sc.r.a.p of evidence which had been adduced; and the more she thought about it the more she was convinced that she had arrived at the truth. By and by, however, the terror of the whole tragic scene came home to her. What would Paul think of her if she were instrumental in bringing his mother to the gallows? Even his love could not bear that test. But she would do it. Rather than see Paul die a thousand should die; for while a woman's love is the most beautiful and the most holy thing on earth, it is also the most merciless and the most pitiless. And at that moment no pity for others entered the heart of Mary Bolitho. Her one thought was of Paul.

No thought of sleep was possible. Every faculty was awake, every nerve in tension. During the years in which she had been interested in her father's work she had, out of pure curiosity, and because of her love of intellectual problems, studied the cases with which he had been connected, and her knowledge of the intricacies of the law and of the value of evidence came to her aid now. All she had was laid at Paul's feet. It was for him she must think, for him she must work.

But she must do something. She must test her theories. Surmises, however true they might be, would not save the man she loved; and save him she would, at whatever cost.

Her mind was made up at length. She saw her course of action, and she believed, too, that she saw a way whereby the truth might be demonstrated.

"Paul, Paul, my love!" she cried. "Do not fear. I will save you, in spite of everything."

She threw herself beside her bed and prayed for wisdom, prayed for strength. She cared nothing for the sacrifices she might be called upon to make, or the sufferings which she might have to endure. She only asked G.o.d to help her to save the man she loved.

The following morning Mary Bolitho left the hotel and found her way to the a.s.size courts. Early as it was, she found some of the officials present. One of them, who had seen her the day before and had been informed who she was, touched his hat respectfully.

"I've been wondering," said Mary, smiling at the man, "whether you could help me?"

"I'm sure I will if I can, miss," he replied.

"You were here at the courts all day yesterday?" she asked.

"Yes, miss, I was, and a sad business it was too, wasn't it? Ah, miss, it's not all fun being a judge, as I've no doubt you know very well. I was saying to my missis only last night as 'ow I wouldn't like to be in your father's place. T'other day, afore th' a.s.sizes were opened, and people saw his lordship coming into the city, they thought what a grand thing it were, but they don't realise what he's got to do."

The man was of a friendly, garrulous disposition, and seemed pleased at the opportunity of talking to his fair visitor.

"Are you interested in this case?" she asked.

"Ay, miss, who isn't? I heard Mr. Stepaside speak in the Free Trade Hall here once, and I cannot believe he is a murderer. It were a grand speech he gave. There were a Cabinet Minister who spoke before he did, and people thought he were doing grandly, but when young Stepaside got up he took the wind out of his sails completely. As the manner of saying is, he made the people stand on their heads. It's noan for the likes of me to pa.s.s opinions, but I can never believe as 'ow Mr.

Stepaside is guilty."

"Did you notice the woman who came into the court yesterday morning?"

"What, the one as fainted? Ay, but that were Mr. Stepaside's mother.

She fair made me shiver. Well, it was no wonder. Fancy a mother seeing her son in the dock. I heerd as 'ow she was going to be called to give evidence."

"Is she staying here in Manchester, do you know?"

"Ay, she is. I hear as 'ow she's been here a week, waiting for her son's trial to begin. I know where she's staying, too--25 Dixon Street, just off Strangeways. An old man and an old woman live there, and th' old man is very deaf. I hear she's practically got the house to hersen."

This was what Mary had come to find out, and she was glad that she had been able to obtain her information without ostensibly asking for it.