He had risen from his seat. He did not speak. He seemed unable to answer her.

"What is it, father? Is someone ill--dying--what?"

And she s.n.a.t.c.hed the wisp of thin paper from her father's hand.

"Ned murdered," she read. "Found early this morning with a knife in his heart. Stabbed from the back. Stepaside apprehended for murder.

We're all distracted.--WILSON."

For a moment the words seemed to swim before her eyes. She could not grasp their purport; and yet, even then, that which filled her heart with terror was not the fact that Ned Wilson was dead but that Paul Stepaside was apprehended as his murderer. She knew of the long feud that had existed between them. She had heard a garbled account of Paul's attack on Wilson on the night when he had been elected a member for Brunford. She remembered all that rumour had said during her father's political contest in Brunford, knew that it was the talk of the town that Wilson had tried to ruin him. And Paul Stepaside was not a gentle man. He was strong, pa.s.sionate--a man who in his anger would stop at nothing. Had Wilson, she wondered, aroused him to some uncontrollable fury? And had Paul, in his anger, struck him down? But a knife in his back, what did it mean? Paul could never do that, and yet----

She felt her head swim. It seemed to her as though her senses were leaving her. The vision of her father standing before her, pale-faced and horror-stricken, was a blurred one. Nothing was real except that ghastly terror was everywhere.

"Of course, it can't be true!" she said, at length.

"But don't you see, it's from his father? It was sent off this morning. I wonder--no, I wonder at nothing! My G.o.d! what shall I do?"

Even at this moment he seemed to be thinking more of himself than of the agony which must be realised in Brunford. It was not Ned Wilson's death which had whitened his face and caused him to tremble so. It was the thought of his own ruin. Unless he could meet his liabilities, he, an English judge, might be disgraced. Still, no; he thought he could manage everything. It only wanted time, and perhaps--well, things might not be so bad after all.

"But it can't be true!" repeated the girl. "Paul Stepaside could never do such a thing."

Judge Bolitho had mastered himself by this time. His eager quick mind had grasped all the bearings of the case. He remembered his last interview with young Wilson, and the arrangement which had been made.

Yes, things were not so bad, after all. He could manage.

"Of course he did it!" was his answer. "Who else could there be?

Stepaside was Ned's only enemy."

"What will the Wilsons feel?" said the girl. "The horror of it! But surely he could not be capable of it! He could not do it!"

"He's capable of anything devilish!" replied her father. "I felt it years ago, when I got him sent to prison. Of course, his name was cleared somewhat, but he was always an incipient criminal of the worst order--clever, if you like--ambitious, undoubtedly, but he belonged to the criminal cla.s.s. And yet---- There, don't you see, 'Stepaside apprehended.' I thought he was too cunning for that, anyhow. I judged that a man of his order would have done the deed in such a way that the guilt would seem to belong to someone else. However, such fellows always overreach themselves."

"But he could not do it, father. He could not do it!" cried the girl.

"A man of Stepaside's character could do anything." He was almost calm now, and able to consider the bearings of the case judicially. "The thing has been growing for years. Event after event has prepared the way for it. Stepaside has never forgiven the Wilsons for sending him to prison. As you know, too, he has always hated me for that.

Besides, Stepaside has always had the belief that Wilson has been trying to ruin him financially. You know what was said during the election? There have been rumours lately to the effect that this fellow and his partner have lost a good deal of money. Very likely he tried to fasten that on Wilson; and so in the end he murdered him. But we shall see! We shall see! There will be more detailed news presently."

"But he could never have done it!" and the girl reiterated it with weary monotony. It seemed to her as though she must fight for Paul Stepaside's life, as though she were called upon to proclaim his innocence.

"Who else could have done it?" said the Judge. "Don't you see, events must have pointed to him clearly, or they would never have dared to apprehend him. Besides, Ned Wilson hadn't an enemy in Brunford besides Stepaside; no other in the world as far as I know. The Wilsons have always been kind masters, always popular with their employees. Ned was a general favourite in the town. He's always borne a good character, too. During the years we've known him, there's never been a breath against him. Yes, it's all plain enough. But I must make inquiries, and find out."

He wandered round the room for more than a minute like one demented, while the girl sat watching him with a hard, fearsome look in her eyes.

"Do you remember what he said that night when I was elected for Brunford?" said the Judge presently. "Do you remember how he defied me, and proclaimed savagely that we should meet again, and always to fight? Well, it seems as though we shall meet again, but this time it will be as judge and criminal!"

"But, father," cried the girl, "you don't mean that you would ever sit in judgment on him?"

"It seems probable that it will be so," said Mr. Bolitho, after a moment's reflection. "Yes, and I will see that he shall have justice, too, full justice. The atheistic scoundrel! You can now see the logical outcome of the opinions of such men. He has vaunted for years that he believed neither in G.o.d nor Devil. He admitted no responsibilities to a Supreme Being, and when a man occupies such an att.i.tude, what moral standard can he have? He hated Ned--poor Ned!--and then, having no standard of right before him, having no religion to sustain him, or to rebuke him, he became, in fact, what he was at heart--a murderer! You know what I have always said, Mary, about these socialistic fellows: Atheism lies at the root of it all!

When a man ceases to believe in G.o.d he can be trusted for nothing. If religion is destroyed then all is destroyed!"

Each word seemed to ring like a knell in the girl's heart. It was as though judgment were pa.s.sed already, and Paul Stepaside were condemned.

"But I must find out more about it," he went on. "Particulars will be flashing over a thousand wires by this time. I must send a wire to Howden Clough, too. I must try and find out the truth, the whole truth!"

And then he went out of the room, leaving Mary bewildered.

CHAPTER XIV

PAUL IS APPREHENDED FOR MURDER

"Paul Stepaside, I apprehend you for the murder of Mr. Edward Wilson!"

The words stunned him, and for the moment he scarcely realised their purport--but only for a moment. His mind a.s.serted itself, and the meaning of what he had just heard came to him in all its grim reality.

"I have to inform you," said the sergeant of the police, "that anything that you may say to me may be used against you as evidence hereafter."

Paul looked at the man's face with a kind of curiosity. For the moment he seemed to be watching some drama of events with which he had nothing to do. The three policemen were of the ordinary well-fed and somewhat self-satisfied cla.s.s of men. They acted upon order, without much intelligence. Paul hesitated a moment, and began to reflect deeply.

He called to mind all the events of the last few hours, and his heart was filled with a great terror. That which, a little while before, had seemed only a dark shadow now a.s.sumed tangible shape.

"Very well, I will go with you," he said quietly. And then, again reflecting a moment, he continued: "But first of all I would like to speak to my mother."

"No," said the sergeant. "I can't allow you to go out of my sight."

"Think what you're saying, my man!" said Paul sharply.

"I can't help it, sir," replied the sergeant. "I'm only acting upon orders"; and he spoke humbly, apologetically. Even at that moment a pa.s.sing stranger could not have helped noticing the difference between the men. The policemen were stolid, commonplace, the mere creatures of formula; the young man whom they had come to apprehend was, to the most casual observer, a man of mark. Neither of them could help feeling it.

Pale of face, clear-cut features, black, flashing eyes, square forehead, a well-shaped head covered with black, glossy hair--tall, erect, well-dressed--it might seem as though he were their master and they his servants; and yet each realised that he was a prisoner, apprehended for murder.

"Very well, Broglin," said Paul quietly. "I see you take this thing seriously, and, of course, I do not wish to hinder you from doing your duty. But, at least, I have the right to know what authority you have for apprehending me?"

"I have a magistrate's warrant," replied Broglin, the sergeant.

"Yes; but they cannot have made out a warrant without some sufficient reason for so doing. To be charged with murder is a serious affair!"

"I know it, sir," replied Broglin. He had forgotten the part he had intended to play. He was altogether conquered by the stronger personality with which he had come into contact.

"Well, what are the grounds for apprehending me, then?"

"First," said the policeman, after a moment's reflection, "Mr. Ned Wilson was found dead this morning. This man here, Police-Constable Ashworth, was on his beat, not far from Howden Clough, when he found him lying face on the ground, the knife driven into his heart."

"Very sad, very terrible," said Paul. "But pray, what have I to do with that?"

"Of course, he started to work," said the constable, "and before long two men who are well known in Brunford, Abel Scott and James Thomas Dixon, stated that they saw you the previous night. They heard what took place between you; they saw Mr. Wilson knock you down with a heavy stick--you can't deny that; there's the wound on your temple now--and they heard you threaten to pay him out."

"Yes," said Paul, "but that's not enough on which to apprehend me."