aul, you must think about the future. You must think about it at
once. You are not guilty of this, and you must know who is. You must
tell me. Hitherto you have refused to confide in anyone. You have
maintained a silence which has been misunderstood, and which has caused
so many to think of you as guilty. It must be broken, Paul. You must
tell me everything, and I will save you."

It was then that he realised what he had to face. For Paul Stepaside
believed that he knew who had killed Wilson. For many a weary hour he
had thought over his mother's strange behaviour, thought of the flash
of madness which had shot from her eyes, thought of the wild words she
had uttered. He remembered, too, the sight that met his gaze on the
morning of the murder. He saw her again, sitting in her bedroom, saw
the look of unholy joy in her face; and in his heart of hearts he felt
sure of what she had done. It was all for him. She had loved him with
a mad, unreasoning frenzy; for him she was willing to sacrifice her own
life. How much wonder, then, that she had been willing to sacrifice
another's life. She had believed that Ned Wilson stood between him and
happiness, and she had determined to move him out of life's pathway.
He had seen her on the day before the murder, with the knife which had
killed Ned Wilson in her hand. She, unknown to his partner, George
Preston, had come to his office. He had seen her handling this
murderous weapon, and he remembered the look in her eyes; remembered,
too, what she had said. How could he doubt? Indeed, she had
practically confessed the deed to him, and he had sworn that not a
shadow of suspicion should rest upon her name. She was his mother.
She had suffered for him. She had committed a crime for him. But he
could not let her pay the penalty for it. No, no; he was willing to
die himself, but he could not bear the thought of his mother's name
being tarnished. He shuddered at the very suggestion of her being held
up before the world's gaze.

"You see, Paul," went on Mary Bolitho; "I know you never did this, and
I know you're hiding something. And you must clear your name, for my
sake. You see, don't you?"

It seemed as though the god of silence sealed his lips. He could not
speak. How could he speak, when, if he told what was in his heart, his
words would be of such terrible portent? Then, like lightning, the
issues became clear to him. They were written from sky to sky. I