"Do you mean to say that you think my Paul cannot get himself off?"

"Oh, don't you realise?" cried Mary. "Jurymen are stupid. They only
look at the surface of things. Of course I know he didn't do it. I
know he couldn't! But unless the truth comes to light, the jury will
condemn him, and then, no matter who is judge, he will be hanged!
Don't you see--don't you see?"

"Do you believe this?"

"I can't help believing it," replied the girl. "I've heard my father
discuss law cases again and again, and I know what will happen. Won't
you tell what you know? Won't you confess? For you do know, don't
you?"

"But do you mean that you, who love my Paul, who believe in him, who
know how clever he is, and who are sure he's innocent, do you believe
that he can't clear himself?"

"How can he, when the evidence all points to him? Someone killed Ned
Wilson. Someone struck the blow with Paul's knife. Don't you see?
Who did it? You know!"

"I know?"

"Yes, you know. Paul is trying to shield someone; you know he is. Who
is he trying to shield? He's giving his life for someone. Who would
he give his life for? He's refused to go into the witness-box, refused
to confide in anyone. Don't you see the meaning of it? Who is there
in Brunford or anywhere else that Paul would be willing to die
for?--for that is what it means. Why is he silent? You know; tell me."

The girl was wrought up to such a pitch of excitement now that she did
not care what she said; neither had she any pity in her heart. She
felt almost angry, too, that this woman should be so rejoiced because
of what she had read to her when all the time Paul was in danger of
death. What mattered name, what mattered honour, what mattered
anything if Paul were pronounced guilty?

"_I_ know, my lassie. _I_ know," cried the woman.

"Of course you know--you _must_ know. Who is Paul trying to shield,
tell me that? Who went into Paul's office and got the knife? Paul did
not kill Ned Wilson. Who did? Tell me that!"

She fixed her eyes on the elder woman, and there was such intensity in
her look, such passion in the words she had spoken, that at length Paul
Stepaside's mother guessed what was in her heart.

"You believe that Paul is shielding me?" she said quietly. "You
believe that I murdered him?" and her voice was hard and stern.

"It was not Paul who did it," said Mary. "Although a thousand men were
to swear they saw him do it, I would not b