Edward Wilson. The two Brunford papers were filled with
practically nothing else. The Manchester dailies devoted several
columns to it. Not only were the Wilsons an important family in
Lancashire, but Paul Stepaside was a Member of Parliament, who had
lately made a speech of note in the House. Even the London dailies
gave a large amount of space to it; and on the morning following the
coroner's inquest Mary Bolitho felt as though someone had struck her a
blow, when, on the first page of the newspaper which had been sent to
her father's house, she saw the staring headlines: "Brunford Murder.
Coroner's Inquest. Paul Stepaside, M.P., committed for trial." She
had no breakfast that day, but went straight to her room, where she
spent hours reading and re-reading the reports given. Everything
pointed to the fact that Paul was guilty, and yet she felt sure he was
not. The shock of Ned Wilson's death, of course, had been very great,
and she had written a letter of condolence to the family. But even her
horror at the murder was nothing compared with her feelings as she
realised that Paul Stepaside, even at that moment, lay in Strangeways
Gaol. She remembered him as they spoke together the last time they had
met. She called to mind her admiration of him, and reflected that,
although he had been brought up among the working classes, his
appearance gave no suggestion of it. Perfectly dressed, perfectly
calm, and possessed of that _savoir faire_ which seems to be innate
with a certain class of people, Paul was infinitely removed from the
class of men with whom one associates criminal deeds. She knew enough
of law, and had talked sufficiently often with her father, to know how
absolutely false circumstantial evidence may be, even although it seems
absolutely conclusive; and now, despite the fact that her father seemed
to have no doubt about Paul's guilt, her mind simply refused to accept
it.

He had never done the deed. He simply could not! If she were asked
her reason for this she could not have given one, only she knew--she
was absolutely sure.

Like many others, too, she tried to think who could have been guilty of
the murder. The fact that young Ned Wilson was dead was, of course,
beyond doubt. Someone must have killed him. Who was it? Her father
had repeatedly declared that, excepting Paul, Ned had not an enemy in
the world. He had lived all his life in Brunford; he was known to the
people. His father was