"It is friendly advice," said Johnson to himself, with a groan; "yet, dare I accept it? After all, how do I know that Brand is my friend? If he were a true friend he would hardly spy on me on Shackel's behalf. This suggested flight may be but a snare to make me inculpate myself. And the selling of the pearls? How can I show that I did not sell them? I was in London! Shackel swears that he saw me enter Abraham Moss's shop. The murderer must have been disguised as myself in order to throw the guilt on my shoulders. What can I do? Tell all these things to Chard? No; then I stand in immediate danger of arrest, and I can offer no defence. Fly? By doing that I make a tacit acknowledgment of guilt. O God, in Thy mercy inspire me with some plan of action. Tera, honour, good name--all gone. And now my life is in danger. What shall I do to help myself?" He paced up and down the narrow room in a frenzy of anguish and futile thought. Then, growing calmer, he determined to question his mother as to Tera's movements and behaviour on the night she disappeared. It might be that the girl had had some enemy of whom he knew nothing. She might perchance have let fall some word which, if followed up, might be likely to elucidate the mystery of her terrible death. In any case there was a chance that his mother might know something which would prove of use to help him. A drowning man will clutch at a straw. Johnson, in his state of distraction, looked on his mother as that straw. He went to look for her. His hope of her aid was faint; still, it was a hope, and that was something. "Mother," he said, as he watched her peeling potatoes, "I want you to tell me what Bithiah did on the night she disappeared." Mrs. Johnson looked up querulously. The name of the murdered girl disturbed her, and she gave a pious moan, such as she sometimes gave vent to in chapel when moved by the words of the sermon. "Bithiah, George! Oh, don't talk of her. She has gone into outer darkness, and I am not quite satisfied about her soul. The misery I've had over that poor heathen you wouldn't believe." "Bithiah was not a heathen, mother, but a Christian, duly received into the fold. But tell me, what did Bithiah do on that evening?" "Nothing more than usual," replied Mrs. Johnson, with another moan. "She was mostly in her bedroom attending to her clothes. I was quite angry at her, George; indeed I was, for the supper was behind, and she would not help. Indeed, no! After leaving her room, she sat in the parlour like a fine lady, talking to Miss Arnott." "What!" cried Johnson, seizing on this admission, "was Miss Arnott here on that evening?" "Didn't I tell you, George? No, of course I didn't. Miss Arnott asked me not to, as she did not wish you to know about her quarrel with Bithiah." "You amaze me, mother. Why should Miss Arnott quarrel in my house?"