"Not unless the real murderer confesses," replied Mary. "You see, I know what Law Courts are, and what juries are, and I've read every word of the evidence, and unless the real murderer is found, I am afraid--terribly afraid!"

"You mean that they will hang him?"

Mary was silent. She felt she could not utter the words that hung upon her lips.

"That's why I've come to you," said Mary. For the moment she felt like uttering the thoughts which had been haunting her throughout the night, but it seemed as though something sealed her lips.

"Will you not help me?" she said. "We must work together."

For a moment Mary had made the other feel what she felt herself--that Paul's life was really in danger--but only for a moment.

"No, no," she cried. "They'll never hang him when they know what I know!"

"What do you know? Tell me," cried Mary, feeling that she was nearing the object after which she strove.

"Yes, you must know. The truth must come out. After last night it cannot be hidden long."

"My father, as you know, is the judge," said Mary. "And he must do his duty. It's not he who's responsible; it is the jury, you know."

There was something unreal in her words, and they seemed to pa.s.s her lips without any effort on her own part. Paul's mother almost laughed.

"Why is it I feel so tender towards you?" she said, "when you are his child? I expect it is because I know that Paul loves you and that you love him. I ought to hate you. I can't understand why I don't. And then everything is so tangled too."

Mary was sure now that she was talking to a mad woman. Her words were meaningless. They were simply the ravings of a disordered mind.

"Can a man condemn his own son to death?" continued the older woman.

"Now that he knows the truth, can he send him to be hanged?"

Mary began to be afraid. The woman's wild, unreasoning words and the strange look in her eyes almost frightened her.

"I do not think you realise what you are saying."

"Not realise?" was the reply. "Oh, my la.s.s, my la.s.s! Yes, I see you think I'm mad. It would be no wonder if I were. I've gone through enough to unhinge any woman's mind; but, no, I am not mad. Yes, I may as well tell you, for you must know sooner or later, that judge--Judge Bolitho as you call him--your father, is Paul's father too, and my husband. Paul has told you about it, hasn't he? He married me when I was a girl up among the Scotch hills, and he's Paul's father, and he's your father too. Don't you see?"

For a moment Mary was almost stunned. In spite of the wild words which she heard, she could not help being convinced of their truth. Her mind fled to the interview she had had with her father on the previous night, and what the woman had said seemed to explain the terror in his eyes and the mystery of his words.

"My father, Paul's father!"

"Yes; he courted me as Douglas Graham. How he changed his name I don't know yet; that will come, I suppose. He is my husband and Paul's father. I told him so last night, so he knows--knows everything. Why didn't he tell you? But--don't you see?--he cannot condemn Paul to death. How can a father condemn his own son?"

The two stood close by the window, and Paul's mother still had her hand upon Mary Bolitho's shoulder, and was looking into her face. Mary felt the hand tremble, and saw the strong woman reel to and fro.

"You are ill, Mrs. Stepaside," cried Mary; and then, scarcely knowing what she was doing, she led her to a chair.

"My la.s.s," said the woman, "take me home. Take me to the home Paul gave me. I cannot think here. I cannot stay any longer. Will you?"

"You mean that you wish me to go to Brunford with you?" asked Mary.

"Ay, if you will, my la.s.sie. I think I am going to be ill. I feel as though I have borne all I am able to bear, and I want to get home--to the home which Paul gave me. Will you come with me?"

Mary was almost overwhelmed by what she had heard during the last few minutes. She was not sure that the woman's story was true, and yet she felt it might be, that it probably was. She wanted to be alone to think. If her father were Paul's father, then, then----

The thought was staggering, overwhelming, but above and beyond everything, Paul's safety, Paul's salvation was her great and paramount thought. She quickly made up her mind what to do. She could do no good in Manchester, and if she accompanied this woman to Brunford she might be able to find proofs to confirm her convictions.

"Yes; I will go with you," she said.

"Thank you, my la.s.sie. Ay, but you're a good child, and you're bonnie, too. No wonder my Paul loves you better than he loves his mother!"

"Are you sure you are well enough to travel?" asked Mary.

"Yes, I am sure I'm well enough to get home."

"Then excuse me for a little while," said Mary. "I will go back to the hotel and pack a few things, and come for you with a cab. In half an hour I will be here. Can you get ready in that time?"

"Ay, I'll be ready; you need not fear."

A few minutes later Mary was back at the hotel again. When she arrived there she found that her father had gone. It was still early for the a.s.size courts, but she paid no attention to it. There was doubtless sufficient reason for her father's early departure. Perhaps, perhaps---- But she could not formulate the thoughts which one after another flashed through her mind. Seizing a piece of paper, she scribbled a hasty note and gave it to the hall porter.

"This is for Judge Bolitho," she said, and then, entering the cab which waited for her, she drove quickly to Dixon Street. Arriving there she found Paul's mother was ready for her, and ere long they were in the train bound for Brunford.

During the journey scarcely a word pa.s.sed between them. Mary was busy with her own thoughts. She was trying to bring some order out of the confusion of the events which had been narrated to her. Everything was altered. If what the woman had told her was true--and in spite of everything she believed it was--then Paul was her half-brother; and if Paul were her half-brother and his mother were still alive, then, then----

But she would not trouble about this, bewildering as it was. What mattered her own future? What mattered what the world might say? Her first business was to save Paul, and save him she would, at all hazards. She looked at her companion, who sat near to her staring into vacancy. Mary's excited imagination began to conjure up wild fancies as she looked. She thought of what Paul's mother must have been twenty-five years before, tried to picture her as a girl. Yes, she must have been very beautiful, and might easily have attracted such a young man as her father was at the time. She fancied the two up among the bare Scottish hills, saw the flash of the young girl's eyes when the stranger told her he loved her, realised the throbbing of her heart, the joy, the wonder which must have possessed her when she promised to be his wife. For the moment all the grim realities of the present seemed to retire to the background. She lived in the world of fancy, of imagination, and the poetry and the romance of the past became very beautiful to her. Strange to say, her own part in the affair did not for the moment trouble her. The terrible logic of events were not yet real to her. By and by they would appear to her in all their ghastly nakedness, but now they did not seem to matter.

"If I am going to be ill," said Paul's mother, "you'll stay with me, won't you?"

"Yes," she replied, not realising what the words might mean.

"You see I shall be all alone. I have no friends in Brunford. Many would have liked to be friends with me for Paul's sake, but I kept them all at a distance. You see I waited until my name was cleared, and it will soon be cleared now."

"What do you mean?"

"Why, he knows, he knows everything--I mean your father. He's afraid of Paul, I know he is; he always has been. It's strange that Paul is not anything like him, isn't it? Paul has black hair and black eyes, just as I have. He's my boy, my boy! Thank G.o.d for that! And they can't harm him, can they? You are sure of that."

Mary was silent. The meaning of the work she had to do became real to her now. She, too, believed that no harm could come to Paul, but she realised the cost of his salvation. Paul could never be saved until the true murderer was found and proved to be the murderer.

"I am afraid I am going to be ill," went on the older woman. "These last few weeks have been too much for me. And you've promised to stay with me, haven't you?"

"Yes," replied Mary eagerly. "I'll stay with you, and you must tell me everything."

"Everything? What do you mean?"

"Oh, everything," replied Mary, and into her heart came the determination to wring the confession from her at whatever cost.

Presently the smoky chimneys of Brunford appeared, and Mary looked out of the carriage window over the great, ugly town; but somehow it did not seem ugly to her--the grey sky, the long rows of cottages, the hundreds of chimneys belching out half-consumed coals did not repel her. This was Paul's town. He was member of Parliament for it. It was here he had made his position. It was here, too, she had first seen him, and here he had learnt to love her.

"You've never seen the home Paul has given me?" she heard her companion say. "It is the prettiest home in Brunford. Paul did it all for me.

You won't think you're in Brunford when you get there. It's quiet and clean up there. The birds sing in the springtime, and the smoke doesn't blow that way as a rule. I never saw another house like it.

Oh! I would gladly die there. All I want now is to see my Paul happy.