ast, as far as evidence was concerned. And then there came
back to him the old determination to fight to the bitter end. At least
he had his chance to reply, and he nerved himself for the work he had
to do. He had no idea of time. He had never thought of it. He knew
it was at the beginning of the afternoon session when Mr. Bakewell rose
to address the jury, but he had no thought of the time which had
elapsed. He had been simply listening, listening, as if it were a
matter of life and death--as in reality it was--to the address which
had been made. He was expecting the judge to call upon him to make his
speech for his own defence, and was arranging his thoughts in order to
do so, when the judge turned towards him and asked him if his defence
would take any considerable time.

"Yes," replied Paul, "it will."

"Then we will adjourn the court until to-morrow."

"Perhaps," added the judge, with a wan smile, "you will be glad of
this. It will allow you some little time to make your preparations."

"Thank you, my lord," he replied.

And then he was led away to his cell.

When Paul entered the dock on the following morning he carried with him
a sheaf of papers, the result of the previous night's work. When he
returned to his cell he asked for writing materials, and then for
several hours worked steadily. A strange calm possessed him while he
was doing this, not without a certain sense of enjoyment, grim as the
circumstances were. He was fighting for his own life, and there was a
kind of intellectual pleasure in framing his arguments and in meeting
the statements which Mr. Bakewell had so forcibly expressed in his
final speech. He had always loved a battle of wits, and, terrible as
the circumstances were, the pleasure which an intellectual struggle
gave him was not absent even on this occasion.

When he had concluded writing he was utterly exhausted, but here his
splendid physique came to his aid, and he slept several hours
peacefully. At least he had one satisfaction. Whatever might be the
issue of the terrible day which lay before him, terrible whatever might
happen, he was an innocent man. He had struck no murderous blow, and
he could go down to the grave with a clear conscience, knowing that he
had tried to do what was right under the circumstances. Sometimes a
shadow of doubt came into his mind as to whether his mother were really
guilty of the terrible deed of which he was accused, but as he reviewed