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Throughout the dreary and sordid weeks which elapsed between the making of his confession to the police and the holding of the ensuing Winter Assizes Perris maintained the attitude which he had shown to Wroxdale with a firmness and stolidity that nothing could break down. Having once made the confession nothing moved him from it or whatever purpose it was that had impelled him to make it. How and when he killed Pippany Webster he would and did tell; why he killed him he would not tell. It was nobody's affair but his, he said; repeated attempts on Wroxdale's part to get him to tell more, warnings as to his fate, only produced sullenness on his part and eventually silence. Once committed for trial and placed in prison on remand he fell into the prison routine with ready acceptance and a curious equanimity. They said of him that nothing affected his appetite nor his ability to sleep; he made no complaints and received Wroxdale's visits with indifference. And at last, when the Assizes were near at hand, he gave the solicitor a plain intimation that he wanted to see him no more.

"I can't see what's t' use o' your comin' here so oft, Mestur Wroxdale," he said, showing for the first time some signs of testiness. "It's only wastin' your time and it's doin' no good. I've telled t' truth about t' matter and theer's an end on it. At least, I know what t' end 'll be, and t' sooner it comes t' better."

"So you mean to let yourself be hanged without an effort to save your neck?" said Wroxdale, feeling it necessary to speak with brutal plainness. "Remember, you're not playing at this—you're in the hands of the Law."

"T' Law and t' lawyers can do wi' me what they like," answered Perris. "I've spokken. I've telled t' truth, and I'll tak' t' consequences. I thowt it all out when I were travillin' down i' t' train that day I come to see you, sir. I tell you I've spokken. An' nowt 'll alter what I've said."

Wroxdale shook his head.

"You've still a duty to yourself, Perris," he said. "You see, if you could only show me that there were extenuating circumstances—"

"I don't know what them words means, sir," replied Perris, with more signs of testiness. "I've telled what t' circumstances were, an'—"

"Wait a moment," said Wroxdale, "and try to remember that I'm doing my best for you. I don't want to see you go to the scaffold if I can save you. By extenuating circumstances I mean that perhaps you lost your temper—"

Perris made a gesture of impatient dissent.

"I lost nowt o' t' sort, then!" he exclaimed. "I werrn't likely to lose mi temper wi' t' like o' that theer. I killed him same as I'd ha' killed a weasel or a rat-ten. An' I've telled ye once for all, Mestur Wroxdale, I've said my say and I shall say no more. Ye mean well, sir, but it's no use comin' to this place agen on that business. What I've said, I'll stand to."

Then Wroxdale played his last card.

"There's somebody besides yourself to think of, Perris," he said. "There's your wife. You don't want her to go through the rest of her life branded as a murderer's widow?"

The look of sullen obstinacy which Wroxdale had begun to know so well came over Perris's face, and settled there as if it would never move.

"I've said my say, Mestur Wroxdale," he answered. "I've nowt no more to remark, sir."

And Wroxdale left him and troubled him no more. But he contrived, with the co-operation of the authorities, to have Perris examined, unknown to himself, by mental specialists, for he had doubts as to the man's sanity. And the mental specialists gave it as their convinced opinion that Perris was sane enough on all points, and then Wroxdale knew that things would have to take their course.

That course was short and sharp enough, once the weeks of weary waiting were over. In a crowded court, in which he himself seemed to be the most unconcerned person present, Perris, called upon to plead, reiterated his guilt as calmly and firmly as he had confessed it before the magistrates. Advised by the presiding judge to withdraw his plea and to take his trial, he answered that he should do no such thing.

He had already told the police and the magistrates all the circumstances of the crime he was charged with and in the telling he had spoken the truth. He was not going to take back what he had said to please anybody. And just as he had been deaf to all that Wroxdale had urged, so he was deaf to all that grave judicial advice could put before him. Forms of law were naught to him, and he shook his head impatiently at the mention of them and the advantage to himself and the public of a fair trial.

"I've answered that theer question you axed me," he said. "An' I'll answer it agen—Guilty!"

So there was no more to be done or said, the prisoner having been proved to be a perfectly sane man, and presently Perris heard himself sentenced to death. He stood for a moment after the last words had fallen on his ears, and he looked round the court, in which we many faces that he must have known, but if he was searching for any particular face he showed no sign. And with every eye fixed on him, he presently turned and walked steadily down the stairs behind him, and so disappeared.

There were many in the court who believed that Perris's last look round had been for his wife. But Rhoda had not been in court, though she was close at hand. At the time of Perris's sudden reappearance she had broken down, and it had been necessary to remove her from Wroxdale's house to an adjacent nursing home where she had ever since remained. Only the best medical skill and the closest attention had restored her sufficiently to be in a condition to face the prospect of entering the witness-box, and the doctor who had accompanied her to the Assizes was thankful for his patient's sake when he heard that there would be no call upon her.

"All the same," he said to Wroxdale, who with Taffendale had come across from the courts to the hotel in which Rhoda and a nurse were waiting in a private room, "somebody's got to break the news to her. She'll be better when she hears it."

Wroxdale looked at Taffendale.

"That's your duty, Mark," he said quietly.

Taffendale's face showed signs of agitation, and he turned away from the other two. But they suddenly saw him draw himself up and square his shoulders and he turned to them with a firmly-set jaw.

"If you think so, and the doctor thinks so," he said.

The doctor nodded.

"Yes, I think so," he said. "Tell her quietly and briefly. I'll call the nurse out and we'll stay near the door in case we're wanted. Come away as soon as you've told her, and then we'll get her away again. Come at once—the sooner she knows the better."

When Taffendale walked through the door which the doctor held open for him he felt that he was dealing with the most critical episode in his life. He knew what would result from the carrying out of the sentence which had just been passed on Abel Perris. Rhoda would be free, and she was already cleared of the suspicions which had gathered about her. And yet he felt a strange certainty that at this moment she was further away from him than ever; that there was a vast gulf between them which nothing could bridge. And as he crossed the room all thoughts of himself and of her went out of his mind and he only saw her as a trembling and agitated woman waiting to know the worst.

She sat in an easy-chair in which the nurse had placed her, facing the fire, and she was staring at the flames with abstracted eyes when Taffendale went up and touched her shoulder. She looked up at him with a start and her hands clasped themselves nervously.

"You won't be wanted, Rhoda," he said gently. For a moment she searched his face with a long look.

"Then—it's over?" she whispered.

"It's over."

"He—he wouldn't say—more?"

"Nothing more."

"And so—"

Her voice sank to a whisper and her eyes finished the question. And Taffendale inclined his head and turned away without speaking. But he quickly turned to her again and laid his hand on her arm.

"There's hope yet," he said. "Wroxdale says there'll be a petition, and all that. Now, Rhoda, you must go back with the nurse and the doctor. Be brave."

She rose obediently and stood for a while looking through the window at the gloomy facade of the great hall which Taffendale had just left. Then she turned to him.

"If—if naught's any good," she said quietly," will they let me speak to him before—the end? There's things—I want to say. You'll see to that, Mark?"

"I'll see to that," replied Taffendale. "Now, Rhoda, you must go."

He picked up her cloak from the table close by and put it round her shoulders, remembering as he did so how, not so many months before, he had rendered her the same service when she had come to his house at the Limepits, little dreaming of what lay before herself and him. And with this thought in his mind, and without another word, he called in the nurse and the-doctor and left her with them.

Taffendale and Wroxdale travelled from the Assize town in company, and for a time neither spoke of the event of the morning. But at last Taffendale started out of a long reverie, which his companion had taken care not to break in upon.

"What chance will this petition have?" he asked abruptly.

Wroxdale looked out of the window of the compartment which they had secured to themselves, and stared at the grey landscape for some time before he answered.

"Well, Mark," he said at last, "if you want to know the truth, I'm afraid very little. Remember the summing-up or, rather, the judge's remarks. There's no denying the fact—this, on Perris's deliberate confession, was a particularly cold-blooded and brutal murder. You know that there doesn't seem to be a single extenuating circumstance. He deliberately killed that poor fellow. Now, his Lordship of this morning is well known as a very stern and severe judge—he's a thoroughly upright man, but a staunch upholder of the Law, and if we send up a petition the Home Secretary will depend upon what he, who heard the case, has to say, and I fail to see what he can say in Perris's favour—with the exception of one thing."

"What's that?" asked Taffendale sharply.

"Why, that when he heard of all this he returned at once—at once, mind!—and gave himself up to justice," replied Wroxdale. "A certain percentage of criminals do that, but it's a small one. Another thing though really part of the same thing—is that all through, from the time he made his voluntary confession to the police to the time of the trial this morning, he showed a firm desire to tell the truth, regardless of the consequences to himself. That is all, so far as I can see, that would be likely to weigh with the authorities. And yet, there is another feature of the case which might be taken into consideration."

"Well?" asked Taffendale.

"This," said Wroxdale thoughtfully. "The absence of any known motive. Perris is such an obstinate, pig-headed fellow that it has been, and, in my opinion, always will be impossible to get out of him what his motive was. But one may reasonably suppose that he didn't kill that man with premeditation. I'll stake my life he didn't, Mark! Therefore, the presumption is that he did kill him on the spur of the moment, whatever Perris himself may say. Perris has stuck consistently all through to the same tale: I meant to kill Webster, and I did kill him.' Yes quite so! but how long had he meant to kill him? A month, a week, a day, or five minutes. My own belief is that when Pippany Webster entered those premises at Cherry-trees, Perris had no more idea of killing him than I have of killing you."

Taffendale, who had been listening with close attention, nodded.

"Couldn't all that be put in a petition?" he asked.

"Certainly it could, and we'll have a petition, and it shall be put in," replied Wroxdale. "I'll draft that petition at once, and we'll do all we can with it, and we'll make a great point, too, of the mystery that overhangs the case yet. Yes, we'll have a petition, and run it for all it's worth."

"And whatever it costs I'll stand to," said Taffendale. "Never mind what the amount is."

Wroxdale made no answer to that beyond a nod. He drew out and lighted a cigar, and smoked for awhile in silence. Then he turned to his companion with an enigmatic smile.

"Human nature is a queer thing, Mark Taffendale," he said. "There's no particular personal reason why any one should sign that petition in favour of Abel Perris. He's not a very lovable personality, poor fellow; the folk above him will say that he's best out of the way, and the folk below him will remember that he killed one of themselves. But I can see one reason why Martinsthorpe folk would sign it—sign it, to a man no doubt."

Taffendale knitted his brows and looked suspiciously at the solicitor.

"What are you driving at?" he asked. "Some of your quibbles, no doubt."

"No quibbles, Mark, plain facts," answered Wroxdale. "They'll sign it to spite you and Mrs. Perris. Village folk never forget. They know that if Perris is hanged, his wife will be free—and the probability, nay the certainty, is, that if they know there's a chance of saving his life, they'll hurry to sign their names or make their marks. Do you follow that, Mark?"

"Let them sign for whatever reason they please," replied Taffendale quietly. "I'm only speaking the truth when I say that I want to see Perris's life saved. And I don't care what folk may say about me, they've said so much already that they can't say much more, nor hurt me much more."

What folk were saying Taffendale knew that very night. As he rode his horse out of Wroxdale's yard on his way home, one of a mob, that had somehow heard of his presence at the solicitor's and had gathered in the darkness to see him go, flung out a loud-voiced gibe—

"Well, ye'll be able to marry t' widder when t' man's hanged, Mr. Taffendale, so all 'll end well for all on yer!"

Then came another and more strident voice: "Aye, but Perris isn't hanged yet!"

Wroxdale heard those cries, and knew that he had been right in what he had said to Taffendale in the train. And he had further proof of the correctness of his conclusions when copies of the petition in favour of Perris were circulated around the country side. For the signatures came fast and thick, and Wroxdale was soon aware that amongst the people there was a fierce desire to prevent the capital sentence from being carried into effect. And from the immediate neighbourhood the movement in favour of Perris's reprieve spread over the county, and to places further afield, and Wroxdale recognised that one of those unaccountable national impulses had set in which begin in an obscure corner and quickly cover a kingdom.

"It will be one of the most numerously-signed petitions ever known," he said to Taffendale, when a fortnight had gone by and the time was drawing short, "and we could get thousands of signatures yet. But it must go up to-morrow. We've done all that can be done, now."

Perris, in his condemned cell, knew nothing of what was being done for him. Wroxdale, knowing his frame of mind on the matter, had thought it best to tell him nothing. For Perris appeared to be fully content and in a certain way happy. They said that he talked and read; he ate well and slept well, and was deeply and almost humbly grateful because he was allowed to smoke his pipe. And he expressed no desire to see anybody.

But when it came to the last day but one of his life, Perris, early in the morning, sent for Wroxdale, and the solicitor, when he arrived, saw something in the man's eyes which he had never seen there before.

"Mestur Wroxdale," he said, "ye know what's to happen day after to-morrow. Now, sir, to-morrow I want to see—my wife. An' I want to see—Mestur Taffendale. An' I want to see 'em together. Can it be done? I want it to be done—it mun be done if it can. I've—summat to say to t' two on 'em—together."

And Wroxdale promised that it should be done, and asked no questions, but hurried away to make arrangements, and as he left the cell he said to himself—

"At last he is going to tell the truth!"