"I know that Paul is shielding someone," went on the girl presently. "He did not do this. He could not do it. He is utterly incapable of it! You see that's why I am so certain. And I'm going to find out who did it. Do you understand, father? That's why I wanted to speak to you to-night. You must give me time. You can make the case last for days, if you want, and I'm going to find out who did it. He's hiding someone." The judge lifted his head, and in his eyes was a gleam of hope. "You believe this, Mary?" he said. "I am sure of it!" she replied. "You can do this to help me, can't you?" "But, my child, don't you see the utter hopelessness of it? You must not love Paul Stepaside. You dare not! Why--why----" "But I do dare," replied the girl. "This charge is nothing to me. He is not guilty, and I love him. Don't you see, father? And I'm going to save him. And you must give me time. Make the case drag on, father. Of course, it will be suffering for him, but I cannot help that. When I'm ready I'll let you know." The judge sat for some minutes as though in deep thought. Confused and bewildered as his mind was by the events of the night, there was something in his daughter's demeanour that gave him hope for the future. "I must think, Mary," he said. "I've had a trying day, and I do not think I'm very well. I want to be alone a little while, and then--well, perhaps in the morning I shall know better what I can do. Good-night, little girl!" He rose to his feet as he spoke and kissed her. Then he led her out of the room again. "Oh, my God!" he said. "My punishment is greater than I can bear. For that one deed of wrong, of cowardice, must I suffer this?" He went into the dressing-room and bathed his head in cold water. It seemed to him as though his brain were on fire. A few minutes later he felt better. He could think again. He sat in an arm-chair beside the fire and reviewed the past. His mind went back to the time when he, a free-hearted lad, went on a walking tour with some other fellows among the English lakes, and then on to Scotland. He had been full of good resolutions, and his heart was light and free. He had meant no harm when he made Jean Lindsay love him, but he had never dreamt of what would follow. And then, then all the ensuing events passed before his mind in ghastly procession. What must he do? In spite of everything, Judge Bolitho believed himself to be a religious man. He had identified himself with religious movements, had professed himself a believer in prayer. In one sense he was a man of the world, keen as far as his profession went, eager for his own advancement. But in another he had held fast to the faith of his childhood. He had had a religious training, and while both his father and mother had died when he was young, he had never forgotten their teaching, and had never been able to shake himself free from early associations.