"What injury?" The witness looked confused. "Have I at any time in your hearing threatened your son with harm?" "No, not in my hearing." "Then you have been repeating gossip rather than telling of what you actually know?" "You've threatened my son himself." "With what?" "Well, you have said to him, 'I'll pay you out for this.'" "For what?" "For certain supposed injuries." "But I am here on the charge of murder. Did I ever threaten to murder him? Did he ever tell you that I had threatened to murder him?" "No, not in so many words." "That's all, my lord," said Paul. "I would not have interposed, only, since you have so kindly allowed me to cross-examine witnesses, I thought you would not mind if I mentioned such an obvious thing!" On this the judge made no comment, and the case was proceeded with. They had made but little headway when the business of the day came to an end, and Paul was taken back to his cell. When he again found himself alone, everything became unreal to him. It seemed to him as though he had been dreaming a horrible dream. Every actor in the grim tragedy which had been played seemed but a phantom of the brain. Everything was intangible, even although he knew how terrible the issues were. By and by, however, he was able to grasp things more clearly, and to remember the events of the day, as well as to call to mind the faces of the people who had been in the court. He knew that the evidence had been very black against him; knew, too, by the look on the faces of the twelve jurymen, that even although they might not be convinced of his guilt, circumstances were leading them in that direction. All the same, the thought of death was far away. He could not believe that he, so young and strong and vigorous, full of physical and intellectual life, would soon cease to be; could not believe that those twelve commonplace unimaginative-looking men who sat in the box could condemn him to die. It was so absurd, so foolish. Then he remembered his little passage of arms with the judge, and he wondered what Mary Bolitho would say. He did not realise her presence at the time, but now it all came back to him. His words had been polite enough, and yet his insinuation had roused a doubt concerning the judge's impartiality. What would she say? What would she think? He was sorry now he had spoken. Why could he not have remained silent? If he had roused doubts, if he had made the jury see how absurd it was to fancy that he could be guilty of this crime, the sleuthhounds of the law would set to work to find the real criminal, and that was what he wanted to avoid. Better bear anything than that the real truth should come to light.