was proved to be Paul's property, and had
been known to be in his possession, while the long enmity between the
accused and the murdered man was the talk of the town.

The results of the magistrates' sitting were, of course, inevitable.
No bench of magistrates could do other than they were obliged to do.
He had set up no defence nor made any statement. Paul Stepaside was
remanded, and sent to Strangeways Gaol in Manchester to await the
coroner's inquest.

By a little after six that evening Paul found himself again a prisoner
in the gaol where he had previously spent six months. But this time
all was different. On the former occasion, even although he knew he
had been unjustly accused and more unjustly prosecuted, he was aware
that much public sympathy was felt for him. He was regarded as a kind
of hero among a large class of people. He felt sure, too, that in due
course his name would be cleared, and even although the marks of his
prison life would ever remain upon him, he would be outwardly very
little the worse for what he suffered.

Now, however, the situation was worse. The sky was black and murky;
the air was smoke-laden; the atmosphere seemed to be tense with gloom;
but it was not blacker than the sky of his life. Everything was
hopeless, and he could do nothing.

Hour after hour he sat in Strangeways Gaol, thinking and wondering.
When the magistrates had remanded him for trial, he had shown no sign,
but had stood proud, calm, erect, and had shown no perturbation
whatever at their judgment. It might have been the most commonplace
thing imaginable. But now that he was alone in his cell everything was
different. He saw what it all meant, and he knew, too, where the
pathway in which he had elected to tread would lead.

He was not a coward, and he had steeled his heart against the worst.
Death he did not fear; but even although he believed that to no man who
was dead was there any life hereafter, and, as a consequence, he would
know nothing of what took place, he dreaded the thought of disgrace.
He knew that throughout the whole land his portrait would be printed in
a thousand papers. He knew he would be discussed by people whom he
despised. He knew that his name would be a byword and a hissing in the
country, while his mother---- But no, he would not think of her.

And what of his hopes? What of his ambitions? What of his life's
work? All seemed to be at an end. He called to mind what his moth