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"That might be an argument against it," Paul answered in a low voice. "I've thought about this a great deal, sir. It's natural, in my circumstances. Don't you think that juries are sometimes composed of stupid, ignorant, and prejudiced persons, who can't understand technical points, have no knowledge of psychology, are easily swayed by circumstantial evidence and the emotional rhetoric of the public prosecutor?"

"Good God!" Rirley exclaimed. "Are you slinging mud at the Lord Advocate next?"

The passionate resentment which now, day and night, worked in Paul, a dark and bitter ferment, forced him to answer.

"A paid official whose career depends upon his ability to take away the life of the man placed before him in the dock deserves as little respect, in my opinion, as the common hangman."

"You forget that we need the common hangman."

"Why?"

"Hell and damnation!" Rirley exploded. "To hang our murderers of course."

"Must we hang them?"

"Of course we must. We have to protect the community. If it wasn't for the fear of the rope any blackguard would cut your throat on a dark night for a five-pound note."

"In countries that have abolished the death penalty, statistics show that there has been no increase in crime."

"I don't believe it! Hanging's the best precaution. And it's a humane death, better than the guillotine or the electric chair. It would be an act of the greatest folly to do away with it."

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Under the deep stress of his feelings, Paul lost all sense of caution.

"That's what Lord Ellenborough, the Chief Justice of England said, not so many years ago, when Samuel Romilly tried to get hanging abolished for thefts of more than five shillings."

The blood mounted to Birley's head. He spluttered:

"You damned young idiot! You can't pin that sort of thing on me. I'm a Liberal. I'm all for humanity! And so is our system. We don't want to hang people. Good God, you ought to know that from your own experience. A man can always be reprieved."

"Your legal system, the best in the world, first convicts a man of murder and condemns him to hang; then, when it questions its own judgment, reverses itself, and sends him to a living hell in prison for the rest of his life. Is that an act of mercy? Of humanity? Is that justice?" Paul rose to his feet, his face white, his eyes blazing. "That's what happened to my father. He's in Stone-heath because of a system of criminal procedure which relies on circumstantial evidence and on witnesses who are unfit to testify, a system which permits manipulation of facts by the prosecution, calling of experts who are no more than paid 'yes' men for the Crown, and the employment of a public Prosecutor whose sole purpose is, less to secure justice, than, by every means at his command, to hang the prisoner in the dock."

Ignoring Birley, and swept away by his obsession, Paul went on in a suppressed voice.

"Crime is the product of a country's social order. Those who make that social order are often more guilty than the so-called criminals. Society should not deal with offenders on the same principles which made them hang a starving boy a hundred years ago because he stole a loaf of bread. But if we're determined to exact an eye for an eye, and a tooth for a tooth, then at least we should expect some efficiency from the law. Instead, what do we get? In capital charges especially? Methods as antique as that ghastly relic, the black cap, as inexcusable as the gallows on which, after the polite burlesque of prayers, the last scene of vengeance is enacted." Breathlessly, Paul rushed on. "It's time for a newer, better system, yet you want things never to change, to remain exactly as they were 'in the good old days.' Maybe

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you'd like to go back even further, to the feudal system, when, incidentally, trial by jury began. Well, you're entitled to your views. But, at the same time, you're the representative of the people, you're my representative in Parliament. Even if you don't believe the statement I gave you it's your duty to see that it gets a proper hearing. If you don't, I'll go out myself and shout it in the public square."

Suddenly realizing what he was saying, Paul stopped short. His legs turned weak and he sat down, covering his eyes with his hand. In the long silence which followed he dared not look at Birley. He felt that he had utterly destroyed his chance of success.

But he was wrong. While obsequious pleading left him unaffected, Birley could be genuinely won by a display of spirit. He admired courage and often took a liking to those who, in his own phrase, "could speak up to him." He did feel, also, that there might be something in this strange, unpleasant case. Moreover, in questioning his sense of duty, Paul had touched him on the raw. Birley was only too conscious that his increasing self-indulgence and the pattern of life laid down for him bv his autocratic wife, had in these later years occasionally made him shirk the more disagreeable functions of his office.

He took a few paces up and down the carpet until his temper should cool. Then he said:

"You youngsters seem to think that you have all the virtues. That's your trouble. You can't see good in anyone else. Now I don't set up as a plaster saint. But in spite of all the adjectives you've thrown at me I do stand for some things. And one of them is fair play. Now I don't like this business of yours one little bit. But, by heavens, I won't fight shy of it on that account. I'll take it and I'll bring it to the open, right on the floor of the House of Commons. Yes, by the Almighty, I give you my solemn oath, I'll land it right into the lap of the Secretary for State himself."

Paul raised his eves. So unexpected was this declamation, so staggering the victory, he felt the room spin dizzily about him. He tried to stammer out his thanks but his lips would not move, the room whirled faster than ever.

"In the name of God!" Birley hastilv tugged a large travelling

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flask from his pocket, bent over and forced some of the spirit between Paul's teeth. "There! That's better. Keep your head down."

He stood watching the colour come back to Paul's cheeks with a new air of patronage, meanwhile treating himself to a series of generous nips from the flask. The intensity of Paul's reaction dispelled the last of his anger, restored to him a comfortable sense of his own authority. And later on, when he had cleared up this nonsense about injustice, what a good story it would make at the Club! — "collapsed at my feet, the young idiot," he heard himself say. But time was getting on.

"Are vou all right now? My train leaves at eight o'clock." Paul got to his feet, blindly accepted the hand which Birlev held out to him, and a few minutes later was in the street, with a singing in his ears, and even wilder singing in his heart.

CHAPTER XVI

NEXT day, Paul left an order with the corner news stand for the Wortley Courier, to be delivered to him every afternoon. This paper reported verbatim the previous day's proceedings in the House of Commons. And although he knew there could be no immediate result — in the press of Parliamentary business Birley must await his opportunity — Paul read it eagerly every evening after returning from his work.

Buoyed by hope, he faced up to his present circumstances and cheerfully made the best of them. At his lodgings he widened his nodding acquaintance with the only other boarder of his own age — James Crocket, the accountant's clerk. Crocket, a sedate and rather stodgy character, regular as clockwork in his habits, favouring high stiff collars and made-up bow ties, was caution itself in returning Paul's advances; but one Saturday morning, as they came out of their rooms together, he speculatively produced two tickets from his pocket-book.

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"Would you care to have these? I got them from the governor. He's a Fellow of the Society."

Paul examined the tickets.

"Don't you want them for yourself?

"My young lady isn't well," Crocket answered, "so unfortunately we can't go. It's very nice. The public isn't admitted Sundays — only the Fellows and their friends."

Unwilling to hurt Crocket's feelings, Paul accepted the tickets with a word of thanks and dashed off to the store. In his change of mood he found himself playing without boredom. From time to time he gazed at Lena Andersen across the aisle, trying to break through the barrier of her reserve. It was not by any means an easy matter — lately, following that period when she had spoken to him more freely, her earlier reticence seemed to have returned and sometimes, in her eyes, there was a stubborn, questioning pain. It hurt him, this apparent withdrawal from the friendship he offered and, at lunch time one day — it was Saturday — a sudden impulse took hold of him.

"Lena," he exclaimed, making his tone especially light. "Why don't you and I take a small outing to ourselves . . . tomorrow afternoon?"

As she did not answer he continued: "A chap in my digs gave me two privilege tickets for the Botanical Gardens. It won't be wildly exciting, but it might break the monotony of our young lives."

Her expression had changed perceptibly, and for a moment she stood very still.

"What is it?" Puzzled and vexed, he attempted a joke. "Afraid the orchids will bite you?"

She smiled faintly. But her stiff facial muscles barely relaxed and that look of fear, a fear of the world and of human beings, remained in her eyes.

"It's very kind of you," she said, with her head averted. "I don't often go out. . . ."

He could not understand her confusion, so completely out of proportion to his casual invitation. And the store was filling up again.

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"Think it over," he said, swinging the piano stool round to the keyboard. "You can let me know if you'd like to come."

Lena went slowly back to her counter, strangely excited. During these past six months, since coming to Wortley, she had not once encouraged or accepted the slightest attention from any man. There had been difficulties, of course, unpleasant ones, too. Harris, for instance, had pestered her when she had first come to the Bonanza, but her rigid indifference had gradually shaken him off. Then, not infrequently, she was accosted and followed in the streets as, like a young Juno, she strode home in the evenings — occasions which caused her a sickening revival of her dread, making her hasten on, with a rigid, frozen face. But this, today, was altogether different, perhaps on that account more likely to be dangerous. Had she not made for herself a rule of life, placed upon her emotions an inflexible restraint?

And yet, as the afternoon wore on, she told herself that there could be no great harm in accepting Paul's invitation. Obviously it meant nothing to him — for that matter his attitude towards her was invariably no more than frank and friendly — he had not once given her an intimate glance, had never even touched her hand. Oh, she must not carry to excess a resolution taken under great stress and anguish of mind. When business slackened and she had an opportunity, she crossed the aisle and told him she would be glad to go, if he could call for her at two o'clock.

Thus, after lunch, on the following day, which was fine and sunny, Paul found himself strolling along Ware Place. The locality, though near the store, was quiet and respectable. Many of the tall soot-stained houses had painted window boxes, a feature which brightened up the old-fashioned street. As he reached No. 61 the door opened and Lena, wearing a dark Sunday coat and hat, come down the short flagged path between the green iron railings to the street. In the doorway, behind, was the elderly woman he had seen that evening outside the store and who. after a moment, seemed suddenly to decide to come out to the pavement and make herself known to Paul.

"I'm Mrs. Hanley." She smiled, holding out a hand crippled by arthritis. "I've heard about you from Lena."

She was about fifty, grey-haired, of less than medium stature,

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and so bent by rheumatism she had to tilt her head back to look at Paul. Despite her stiffness, she had a brisk and cheerful air, enhanced by the bird-like brightness of her eyes.

"I'm told you are a great musician," she remarked, still searching his face with those bright eyes.

Paul laughed outright.

"I pound the piano a little. I'm no more a musician than the organ grinder who turns the handle of a hurdy-gurdy."

"Anyway, I'm glad you're taking Lena out. She doesn't get about half enough. I don't want to keep you — just wanted to say 'How do you do.'" As though satisfied, Mrs. Hanley withdrew her gaze from Paul and gave Lena a tender, encouraging smile. "Have a good time."

She hobbled back to the house, helping herself up the steps by the railings.

When the door closed, Paul and Lena set out together. The red tram took them along Ware Street — steeped in Sunday quiet — across Leonard Square and out into the suburban grandeur of Garland Road, where red brick villas stood behind banks of laurels and prickly monkey-puzzle trees. The Botanical Gardens lay on the outskirts of this district, and at the terminus they descended and entered the big ornamental gates.

"Might be worse." Paul smiled to Lena, after a brisk survey of the pleasant rolling lawns, the avenue of shapely chestnut trees leading to a distant lake, and the numerous ornamental greenhouses spaced within the extensive domain. "There won't be much to see outside this time of year, but let's take a walk before we do the green-houses. Incidentally, Lena, may I tell you that today you are looking extremely nice."

She made no answer to this casual compliment. Yet it was perfectly true, and he had been conscious of it ever since she had appeared, just as he was conscious now of the interested glances which she attracted from the people who passed them as they strolled towards the lake. He had never seen her in anything but her uniform and her worn everyday coat, never properly realized what natural grace and individuality she possessed. She was a different person today — so unusual, too, with her warm complexion and thick honey-coloured hair, her graceful figure and easy car-

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