It was then that he realised what he had to face. For Paul Stepaside believed that he knew who had killed Wilson. For many a weary hour he had thought over his mother's strange behaviour, thought of the flash of madness which had shot from her eyes, thought of the wild words she had uttered. He remembered, too, the sight that met his gaze on the morning of the murder. He saw her again, sitting in her bedroom, saw the look of unholy joy in her face; and in his heart of hearts he felt sure of what she had done. It was all for him. She had loved him with a mad, unreasoning frenzy; for him she was willing to sacrifice her own life. How much wonder, then, that she had been willing to sacrifice another's life. She had believed that Ned Wilson stood between him and happiness, and she had determined to move him out of life's pathway. He had seen her on the day before the murder, with the knife which had killed Ned Wilson in her hand. She, unknown to his partner, George Preston, had come to his office. He had seen her handling this murderous weapon, and he remembered the look in her eyes; remembered, too, what she had said. How could he doubt? Indeed, she had practically confessed the deed to him, and he had sworn that not a shadow of suspicion should rest upon her name. She was his mother. She had suffered for him. She had committed a crime for him. But he could not let her pay the penalty for it. No, no; he was willing to die himself, but he could not bear the thought of his mother's name being tarnished. He shuddered at the very suggestion of her being held up before the world's gaze. "You see, Paul," went on Mary Bolitho; "I know you never did this, and I know you're hiding something. And you must clear your name, for my sake. You see, don't you?"