Paul found his way back to his home, thinking over what had taken place. He was still half-dazed by the blow he had received, and his heart was filled with black rage. Perhaps, too, he was the more angry because he found it difficult to perform what he had threatened. In spite of himself he shrank from writing to the paper contradicting the engagement. He had no right to do so. For all he knew, the engagement might be an actual fact. He did not believe that Mary Bolitho had consented of her own free will to marry Wilson, and yet he did not know. Rumour had it that her father was not a wealthy man; and, after all, Wilson was one of the richest men in Lancashire, the home of huge fortunes. It might be, therefore, that Judge Bolitho had persuaded her against her will to marry this man. It would relieve him of all financial worries. From some standpoints it would be a brilliant match. It was true, Wilson was not a man who would shine in Mary Bolitho's circle, but money can do a great deal, and here he was almost all-powerful. But that was not all. Brunford, like all provincial towns, was noted for its gossip, and if he contradicted the engagement, all sorts of wild rumours would be afloat. Mary Bolitho's name would be discussed by all sorts of people, and things would be said which would madden both him and her. Still, she must know the truth. If he told her certain things he knew about Wilson, he believed he could save her from him. But even here difficulties presented themselves. Could he prove these facts in such a way that Mary Bolitho would be convinced? And should he not, by so doing, make himself appear to her a spy and an informer? He did not know much about such matters, but it was not a dignified role to play. In a way it would be striking below the belt. He would not be playing the game. And the thought was hateful to him. "But she must know, she must know!" he said to himself, as he trudged along the road. "And I'll not be beaten, especially by a man like that." And then he remembered the blow which had been struck. "Yes, he shall pay for it!" he said grimly, as he wiped the blood away from his face. "He shall pay for it to the uttermost farthing!" When he reached his home it was dark, and he was still undecided as to the exact course he should pursue. He opened the door with his latch-key, and switched on the electric light. As he did so his mother came into the hall. "Paul," she said, "what is the matter?" "Nothing," he replied, trying to evade her gaze. "But your face is bleeding. There's an ugly wound in your temple!" "It's nothing," he replied. "Just a slight scratch, that's all." "It's no scratch," said the mother. "Tell me, what is it, Paul? I must know!" And she caught him by the arm. "It's no use telling you, mother," he said, facing her. "And you needn't trouble; I am not hurt very much."