Even now he saw groups of people in the street, talking excitedly,
while more than one looked curiously at the cab in which he rode. He
had no doubt that reporters were near, eager to get a sensational
account for the local papers. It would be a godsend to them. Paul
Stepaside, Member of Parliament for Brunford, the man who had been
spoken of as the idol of the people--he, whose one speech in the House
of Commons had given him an almost national reputation, would now be
notorious for one of the foulest deeds of which a man is capable.
Still, he did not lose control over himself. He sat quietly, grimly,
thoughtfully. There was that in his heart which he dared not reveal,
and which at all hazards must be kept buried.

Presently the cab reached the Town Hall. A number of loafers were
hanging around, while many had gone so far as to leave their work in
order not to miss such a sight. It was not like an ordinary murder.
Ned Wilson was the son of one of the most prominent men in the
district; and Paul Stepaside, who had come to Brunford only a few years
before, had become the most noted man in the town--and now it had come
to this! A few minutes later he found himself in a cold, dark cell.

Of what he thought during the many hours he remained there it is not
easy to tell, but that he felt the terror of it and the grim tragedy
which pervaded everything can be easily realised. He was apprehended
for murder, and he had been taken to that gloomy cell because of it.
Of course, the reasons were plain enough, and as far as he could see,
the police officials could not evade their duty. The long-standing
feud between himself and Wilson was well known. Many threats had been
uttered on both sides, while the quarrel which had taken place the
previous night had evidently become public property. It seemed to him
as though the hand of Fate had been at work in order to encompass his
ruin. Of course, he was innocent of the deed. He had never struck Ned
Wilson the blow which deprived him of life; nevertheless, every
circumstance seemed to point to him; and, to crown all, it was his
knife that had been found in Wilson's heart.

During the time he had been in the cab he had been thinking of the
means he should use to clear himself, for he felt sure he could do so.
Sitting alone in the cell, however, this became impossible. Such a
terror as he had never known before filled his heart. He believed he
knew who had committed this gh