"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 G.o.d 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.