"She's right in one thing, at all events," said Paul. "I can do no good by staying with her, and I had better go to bed. The servants will be talking, else, and they must know nothing." He threw himself on the bed, and tried to understand all that had taken place. It seemed as though something terrible had happened, some dire calamity had taken place. The world seemed a different place from what it had been a few hours before. Since meeting with Ned Wilson, that had happened which had altered the whole course of his life. The very air seemed laden with terror, the skies were black with doom. It seemed to him as though ravens were croaking, and the church bell tolling for the dead; and then, while trying to drive the black scenes of the night from his mind, it seemed as though his senses became dulled. Everything became unreal. The past might have been blotted out, even those years at St. Mabyn were like a dream, while all the events since were just as a tale that is told. It was simply Nature taking him into her arms, and rocking him on her broad bosom. His strength had given way. The events of the night, his home-coming, his mother's strange behaviour, and the excitement which it all meant had simply worn him out, and now Nature was trying to restore him. He fell into a deep, dreamless sleep, and lay like a log upon his bed. How long he slept he did not know, but presently he heard a sharp knock at the door. "It's half-past eight o'clock, sir. Are yo noan gettin' up?" "What?" he cried, half asleep. "Half-past eight o'clock, sir. Are yo noan gettin' up? And summat terrible has happened!" "What's happened?" he asked. "Mr. Ned Wilson is dead. He's been murdered! He was found this mornin'." He did not reply. It seemed as though he had lost the power of speech. Mechanically he looked out of the window, and saw the murky, smoke-laden air. It seemed to him as though the roar of a thousand looms reached his ears. He pictured the weavers standing in their weaving sheds. He did not know why he did this; in fact, it did not seem to matter. Nothing mattered. Mechanically he dressed himself. There seemed no reason why he should go downstairs, but he was merely a creature of habit. "I wonder where she is!" he said to himself again and again. "I wonder where she is. I wonder, too----" Again a knock came at his door. "Well?" he said. "What is it?" "A sergeant of the police and two constables are at the door. They want to see you particular," said the servant. "All right," he said. "I shall be down in a minute." He remembered tying his necktie with great care, and then went down into the hall. No sooner had he done so than the sergeant came forward, and put his hand upon his shoulder. "Paul Stepaside," he said, "I apprehend you for the murder of Mr. Edward Wilson." CHAPTER XIII HOW MARY BOLITHO RECEIVED THE NEWS