hink one thing would convince me. You
remember the story I told you yesterday--or shall we call it an
incident, and not a story?"

"I remember. I suppose it had something to do with your own life?"

"You have heard the miserable stories, then?" said Paul.

"I have heard a great many things about you," replied the chaplain.

"Well, then," said Paul. "Let me say this to you: I think this would
convince me that there might be something in religion if my father
confessed his wrong, publicly confessed it, mind you, and sought to do
right; if he proclaimed his ill-deeds before the world, and did all in
his power to rectify the wrong he had done. Then I might believe."

"And nothing else would convince you?" said the chaplain.

"Nothing else," said Paul.

"But who is your father? Where is he?"

"Ah," said Paul. "But it's no use thinking of it any more. The whole
thing is hopeless, and life is just a great mockery."

The chaplain left him with a sad heart. He was a kind man, and sought
to do his duty, and Paul had interested him strangely.

The court that day was, if possible, more crowded than ever. The
morning papers had been filled with reports of the previous day's
trial. The wildest of rumours had been afloat. Descriptive articles
had been written about the young Member of Parliament who was accused
of such a terrible crime. His every word had been commented on. His
appearance had been discussed. The evidence given had been the subject
of thousands of gossiping tongues. And so the court that day was
simply thronged with an intense, eager crowd. Moreover, the inwardness
of the trial had seized upon the imaginations of the people. It was
more real, more vivid to them than it had been the day before. And
when Paul entered the dock, accompanied by two policemen, a great
silence fell upon the court, while every eye was fixed upon him.

"He looks as hard and proud as ever!"

"Yes, there's not much sign of repentance!"

"I wonder if the trial will close to-day?"

"There's no knowing. I've heard as 'ow several witnesses will be
brought into court which was never thought of at the beginning. Will
Ashley says as 'ow he saw Paul about half-past five on the morning of
the murder not far from Howden Clough. Will says as 'ow there was a
look in his eyes like the eyes of a madman."

"But Will never appeared before the coroner's inquest?"

"No; I suppose he wanted to be kept out of it. But he 'appen