"You know what I believe, father?"

"I know, Mary; but you're wrong."

"But Paul never did it!" She seemed never to grow weary of making this a.s.sertion. No matter how strong the evidence might be, no matter what the world might say, nothing shook her.

"Brans...o...b.. thinks so."

"He has not told you, has he?"

"Oh, no. I have not said a word to him about the trial; but I've been reading the evidence this evening--you know, the case came on again this morning--and it's clear to me from his questions that he has no doubt about the matter. Things looked very black against Paul when the case was adjourned this evening."

A look of wild terror came into Mary's eyes. "But, father, don't you see?" she cried. "Paul had no secrets from his mother. He told her everything--everything. When he came home that night, after his quarrel with Wilson, he would tell the whole story to her.

Afterwards---- Can't you see, father? Can't you see?"

"We've gone over this ground a hundred times," said the judge. "But it won't do, Mary. In any case, it would be impossible to make an accusation against her. No one saw her that night, and, as far as I can see, nothing can be traced to her in any way. And even if it could---- Don't you understand, Mary?"

"And will you allow Paul to be hanged?"

The judge was silent. They were sitting alone in Paul's study some days after the judge had made his confession. He had been true to his promise, and had devoted every possible moment to the elucidation of the mystery which faced him. He had brought all his knowledge of the law to bear upon it; he had utilised all his experience in the discovery of criminals; he had exerted himself to the utmost; but there was not a ray of light anywhere.

"Do you know anything? Have you heard anything more?" he asked.

"As you know," replied Mary, "she has not been fully conscious ever since that day. But I have found out something. This afternoon she has been much better, and now and then there seemed to be some return of reason."

"Well?"

"Well, her mind is full of this trial, full of the horror of Paul's situation--you can tell that from her wanderings--and this afternoon I heard her say these words: 'They make a great deal about the knife.

They say no one could have got into the office; but I was in the office, and I saw the knife. Paul and I spoke about it.'"

"Yes," said the judge eagerly. "Was there anything else?"

"No, nothing more, nothing more; but surely it is enough?"

The judge was silent for a few seconds.

"If she had been able to attend as a witness this would have come out,"

he said. "I find that she was subpoenaed, but her illness makes it impossible for her to be there." And he gave a sigh, half of relief, half of sorrow.

"And can you do nothing, nothing?" asked Mary.

"Nothing yet," said the judge.

"But you cannot believe they will find him guilty?"

"Paul will be allowed to make a speech in his own defence. He may work wonders that way. He has done very little cross-examining to-day, but that may be part of his method. I think he's going to rely on his a.n.a.lysis of evidence. It's not an unsound process. Cross-examinations ofttimes mean very little. Justice Hawkins, you may remember, when he was practising at the Bar, used to depend almost entirely on his closing speech, and he won more cases than perhaps any other man.

Still, we must not depend upon that. Nothing shall be left undone, Mary."

"Father, I'm going to see Paul."

"Better wait, better wait," he replied. "I am afraid a visit from you would do him more harm than good. You'd have to tell him about his mother's illness."

"I'm going to write to him to-night, anyhow," said Mary.

"But tell him nothing that will pain him, Mary."

When Mary left the room Judge Bolitho nearly lost control over himself.

The days were slipping away, and nothing had been done. In spite of every inquiry he had made, he seemed to be getting no nearer to the solution he sought for. Like Mary, he was convinced that Paul had never done the deed; and yet, unless the murderer could be discovered, he could not close his eyes to Paul's face. For more than an hour he went over the whole miserable story again, connecting link with link, incident with incident, opinion with opinion. Still the same blank wall met him.

"I can't stay indoors any longer," he muttered. "I must get out into the open air."

It was now about nine o'clock, and, almost heedless whither he went, he found his way into the heart of the town. Judge Bolitho had by this time become an almost familiar figure among the people of Brunford. He had gone all over the town making inquiries. He had spent much time in the neighbourhood of Paul's factory making investigations. He had talked with all sorts of people, and all, knowing what he desired, had told him everything they knew. But still the secret remained a secret.

Presently he found himself in the market-place, where there were excited groups of people discussing that day's trial. The judge wandered from one group to another listening eagerly. A large ulster almost covered his face, for the nights were very cold, and but few recognised him. It seemed to be the settled conviction among the people that Paul's case was hopeless. At length he heard someone speaking who attracted his attention strangely. It was not because of what he said, but because of the unfamiliar accent which the judge immediately recognised. The man was a Scotsman, and he spoke with the accent common to that district where Jean was reared. The judge drew nearer and listened attentively.

"I tell you," said the man, "I saw this Bolitho when he was but a lad.

My brother, Willie Fearn, courted Jean, and it was Bolitho who took her away from him. Ye dinna believe me? Am I not called Archie Fearn?

Ay, but I know."

The men to whom he spoke laughed incredulously.

"Yo've been drinking too much Scotch whisky," said one with a laugh.

"I can carry more whisky than any man in Brunford," was his reply. "I was ne'er a steady, G.o.d-fearing man like my brother Willie. It might have been better for me if I had been. He's a rich man the noo, while I have to come to this dirty hole to get a living. Ay, I know more about this business than you think."

At this there was much incredulous laughter, and then Judge Bolitho heard the man cry out something about his having seen someone on the very night of the murder. The conversation was not by any means connected, but Judge Bolitho, anxious to catch at any straw, determined not to allow the Scotsman to escape him. It might end in nothing; still, there was possibly something in what the man had said.

A few minutes later Archie Fearn left his companions, evidently with the purpose of making his way to a public-house which stood at the corner of the Market Square. Before he reached it, however, the judge had come up to him and touched his arm.

"So you call yourself Archie Fearn now, do you?" he said quickly.

"Ay, and who dares say I'm not Archie Fearn?" replied the man. "Was I no born in Scotland? And do I not speak like a Scotsman?"

"You did not call yourself Archie Fearn the last time I saw you," said the judge.

"And when might ye have seen me?"

"I saw you in Liverpool two years ago. You called yourself John McPhail then, and it was my duty to give you six months with hard labour."

The man looked at the judge coolly. "Ay, very likely," he replied.

"Ay, I remember noo, I remember noo," and he laughed significantly.

"Why do you laugh?" asked the judge.

"I was thinking," was the reply. "I think of mony things. The Scotch are a canny people. You'll be knowing that yourself, my lord."

"And you say you're Willie Fearn's brother?" said the judge.

"Ay, I am and all. It's perfectly true that Willie is an elder in the kirk, while I am--weel, what you see me; but, for all that, I know more about the fundamentals of doctrine than he does. I know the second catechism by heart, and I could put any meenister in this toon to shame. Ay, man, but if you want to hear preaching you must go to Scotland. It's there that the meenisters are groonded in the faith.