A little later she found her way towards Dixon Street, and with a trembling hand knocked at the door of the house which had been mentioned. As she heard footsteps in the pa.s.sage her heart almost failed her, for she realised the object which she had in mind, and she believed that she would soon be face to face with the murderer of Ned Wilson. Still, she was not to be shaken in her purpose, as she had determined the night before, no matter who might suffer, Paul must not suffer. A pale, near-sighted old woman opened the door to her.

"Is Mrs. Stepaside in?" asked Mary.

"Ay, she is."

"I would like to see her, if I may."

"Who might you be?"

"If you will take me to her I will tell her who I am."

The woman looked at her suspiciously.

"Has it got anything to do with the murder?" she said; and then added: "Nay, the likes of you can have nowt to do with that!"

"Will you please take me to her?" said Mary.

"I don't know. She's noan so well this morning. Last night I left her i' th' house alone. Me and my old man went over to Crumpsall to see our la.s.s. She said as 'ow she didn't mind being left alone, and so we were away several hours. But I was sorry afterwards that we went, for she was in a fair way when we come back. She looked just like a corpse. You see, she's brooding over her son. Ay, but it's a terrible business!"

"Will you please tell her a young lady wishes to see her?" urged Mary.

"She's in the little room behind, having her breakfast," said the woman. "Ay, I s'pose I may as well."

She led the way and Mary followed her, and a minute later entered the room where Paul's mother was.

"Here's a young woman come to see you."

Paul's mother rose as the woman spoke, and looked at Mary intently.

"I've something to say to you," said Mary, "something very important."

"What is it about?"

"I'll tell you when we are alone," was Mary's reply. And then, at a nod from Paul's mother, the owner of the cottage left them together.

For a few seconds there was a silence between them, as each looked steadily at each other. In Mary's eyes were wonder and a sense of horror. She was speaking to Paul's mother, the mother of the man to whom she had given her heart. She was speaking, too, to the woman whom she believed guilty of the crime for which Paul would be again tried that day. The other met her gaze steadily, and looked at her searchingly. She seemed to be trying to read her thoughts, trying to understand her heart, for she knew, as if by instinct, who Mary was--knew that she was looking at the maid whom Paul loved. She did not know that Mary had been to see her son, knew nothing of what had pa.s.sed between them, knew nothing of what Mary had confessed. For the moment she seemed to think of her only as the girl to whom Paul had given his heart.

"Do you know who I am?" asked Mary.

"Yes, I know. Why have you come here?"

The girl was silent. She could not answer the question. Determined to save Paul as she was, she could not, at such a moment, make the reply which she longed to make.

"Has your father told you anything?"

"Told me anything? I do not understand."

"Ah!" replied the older woman, and she knew that Mary knew nothing of what had taken place between her and Judge Bolitho in that very room the night before.

"Let me look at you," she said presently. "Come here to the light,"

and taking hold of Mary's arm, she led her to the window, and scrutinised her face slowly.

"You're the la.s.s that my Paul loves," she said, after some seconds.

"You know he loves you, don't you? Of course you do. He told me about it himself. Oh, my laddie, my laddie!"

Mary did not speak. She seemed to be fascinated by something in the woman's eyes, while the tones of her voice thrilled her. She felt now how she loved her son, realised how deep was the pa.s.sion which filled her whole being.

"He's in prison, accused of murder--you know that? He's to be tried again to-day."

Still Mary was silent. There seemed nothing for her to say.

"You love my lad, don't you? Ay, I see you do. Trust a mother to know. Yes, you love him, and he would die for you, willingly. Do you know that?"

"Yes," said Mary.

The interview was turning out altogether differently from what she had expected. This woman was leading her into paths she had not dreamt of.

"I'm his mother," went on the older woman, "and he's everything to me, everything! And I would stop at nothing to make him happy. I'd lay down my life, willingly, to bring joy into his heart. But do you understand? Do you know the truth?"

"What truth?" asked Mary. "I do not quite understand you. Do I believe Paul guilty? No, I don't. He could never do such a thing.

He's too great, too n.o.ble."

"Do you say that? You?"

"Yes," replied Mary. "I am sure he never did such a thing. He's simply incapable of it. You know it, too, don't you? Of course you do."

"Then you take no notice of the evidence?"

"What's evidence?" asked the girl. "The one thing I'm sure of is that Paul never did what he is accused of. He simply couldn't."

"And you're _his_ child!" said Paul's mother. "_His_ child. Let me look at you again." She scrutinised Mary's face feature by feature.

She seemed to be looking for something.

"You're a good la.s.s," she said presently. "And you love Paul, don't you?"

"Yes," replied the girl, "I do." There seemed nothing incongruous in the confession, nothing strange in making it to the woman to whom she was speaking for the first time. And yet the interview was bewildering. Her thoughts, as she found her way along the grimy street, were clear enough. Now they were being scattered to the winds.

Neither could she adhere to her resolution. How could she accuse this woman of such a terrible deed?

"What have you come here for?" asked Paul's mother presently.

"Need you ask?" asked Mary. "I've come to you because we must save Paul."

"Do you think Paul needs our help?" asked the other. "When the time comes Paul will clear himself. You do not know what a clever lad he is. I know what is being said about him. I read it all in the papers, but I don't fear. Paul is cleverer than all of them put together, and, of course, he never did it; he'll surely come triumphant out of this.

Oh, I know it's terrible for him; but it's not that that makes me fear, it's something else!"

Again Mary's eyes met those of the other, and she was sure she detected a look of madness. The woman's mind was unhinged. She was not altogether responsible for what she was saying.

"No, it's not that," continued Paul's mother. "It's not that. Paul is so clever that he will beat them all."