he cried, half asleep.

"Half-past eight o'clock, sir. Are yo noan gettin' up? And summat
terrible has happened!"

"What's happened?" he asked.

"Mr. Ned Wilson is dead. He's been murdered! He was found this
mornin'."

He did not reply. It seemed as though he had lost the power of speech.
Mechanically he looked out of the window, and saw the murky,
smoke-laden air. It seemed to him as though the roar of a thousand
looms reached his ears. He pictured the weavers standing in their
weaving sheds. He did not know why he did this; in fact, it did not
seem to matter. Nothing mattered. Mechanically he dressed himself.
There seemed no reason why he should go downstairs, but he was merely a
creature of habit. "I wonder where she is!" he said to himself again
and again. "I wonder where she is. I wonder, too----" Again a knock
came at his door.

"Well?" he said. "What is it?"

"A sergeant of the police and two constables are at the door. They
want to see you particular," said the servant.

"All right," he said. "I shall be down in a minute."

He remembered tying his necktie with great care, and then went down
into the hall. No sooner had he done so than the sergeant came
forward, and put his hand upon his shoulder.

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

CHAPTER XIII

HOW MARY BOLITHO RECEIVED THE NEWS

Just before Christmas Mary Bolitho returned to her father's house from
London, where she had been visiting some friends. It was during this
visit that the meeting between herself and Paul, which we have
previously described, took place. During the rest of her stay in
London she constantly thought of what he had said to her, and wondered
whether, in the excitement of the moment, she had spoken foolishly.
She admired Paul greatly, even in spite of the dislike which still
lurked in her heart. She had an admiration for strong, capable men,
and had been greatly interested in the career which she felt sure lay
before him. Nevertheless, a strong feeling of antagonism possessed
her. His air of masterfulness irritated her, and in her quiet hours
she felt angry because he possessed a kind of fascination for her. She
could not help being pleased at his evident admiration for her, and she
thought of his avowal with feelings almost akin to delight, and yet she
never meant to encourage him. A great gulf lay between them, and the
thought of crossing it was