ied the young man angrily, "it was cruel to her to make the
confession you did this morning. I would a thousand times rather
suffer myself--ay, and see my mother suffer, too--than see her suffer.
And this is what you've done. Had you not better go away and leave me
alone? Had you not better recant what you said this morning, and say
you spoke while your mind was unhinged?"

"Paul," said the judge, "will you let me sit down on your couch here?
I realise the truth of every word you have said, although you have
spoken cruelly. Perhaps I did wrong in coming to you; but I could not
help it. Believe me, my son, much as you have suffered, it is nothing
to what I suffer at this moment."

There was no whine in his voice, no appeal to pity. It was a simple
statement of fact, and for the first time Paul had a feeling in his
heart which he could not understand. After all, the man before him was
his father, and his haggard face, his bent form, his bloodshot eyes,
all told of the agony through which he was passing.

"Son," said the judge, "some time, at all events, I hope I may be able
to make known the things which you have asked, but I cannot trust
myself to try and do so now. Will you let me be quiet for a few
minutes, my boy? I want to think. And will you try and forget this
part of the story?"

The judge sat down on the couch, while Paul, leaning against the prison
wall, watched him. Minute after minute passed away, and then the judge
spoke again.

"Paul," he said. "Are you guilty of this murder?"

"I would rather not discuss it with you," said Paul.

"My son," said the judge, "you do not believe what I have told you. To
you my words are a mockery. But I love you like my own life. Even
now, if I could die in your place I would be glad. At any rate I may
be able to help you. Mary doesn't believe you are guilty. She told me
so last night. I can speak freely of this now, for I am no longer the
one who shall sit in judgment on you, and I want to help you."

Paul looked at his father and wondered what was passing in his mind;
wondered, too, how much he knew. He could not tell him of his
suspicions, could not even hint at the fact that he believed his mother
was guilty of the murder for which he was accused. He knew of Judge
Bolitho's reputation; knew, too, that he would eagerly fasten upon
everything he learnt and follow it to its logical sequence.

In spite of everything, however, a change seemed to be