“But whatever the merits of our present game system may be, the present case is surely clear—­horribly clear.  Six men, with at least three guns among them, probably more, go out on a pheasant-stealing expedition.  They come across two keepers, one a lad of seventeen, who have nothing but a light stick apiece.  The boy is beaten to death, the keeper shot dead at the first brush by a man who has been his life-long enemy, and threatened several times in public to ‘do for him.’  If that is not brutal and deliberate murder, it is difficult to say what is!”

Marcella stood still in the misty road trying to command herself.

“It was not deliberate,” she said at last with difficulty; “not in Hurd’s case.  I have heard it all from his own mouth.  It was a struggle—­he might have been killed instead of Westall—­Westall attacked, Hurd defended himself.”

Aldous shook his head.

“Of course Hurd would tell you so,” he said sadly, “and his poor wife.  He is not a bad or vicious fellow, like the rest of the rascally pack.  Probably when he came to himself, after the moment of rage, he could not simply believe what he had done.  But that makes no difference.  It was murder; no judge or jury could possibly take any other view.  Dynes’s evidence is clear, and the proof of motive is overwhelming.”

Then, as he saw her pallor and trembling, he broke off in deep distress.  “My dear one, if I could but have kept you out of this!”

They were alone in the misty road.  The boy with the horse was out of sight.  He would fain have put his arm round her, have consoled and supported her.  But she would not let him.

“Please understand,” she said in a sort of gasp, as she drew herself away, “that I do not believe Hurd is guilty—­that I shall do my very utmost to defend him.  He is to me the victim of unjust, abominable laws!  If you will not help me to protect him—­then I must look to some one else.”

Aldous felt a sudden stab of suspicion—­presentiment.

“Of course he will be well defended; he will have every chance; that you may be sure of,” he said slowly.

Marcella controlled herself, and they walked on.  As they entered the drive of Mellor, Aldous thought passionately of those divine moments in his sitting-room, hardly yet nine hours old.  And now—­now!—­she walked beside him as an enemy.

The sound of a step on the gravel in front of them made them look up.  Past, present, and future met in the girl’s bewildered and stormy sense as she recognised Wharton.

CHAPTER X.

The first sitting of the Birmingham Labour Congress was just over, and the streets about the hall in which it had been held were beginning to fill with the issuing delegates.  Rain was pouring down and umbrellas were plentiful.

Harry Wharton, accompanied by a group of men, left the main entrance of the hall,—­releasing himself with difficulty from the friendly crowd about the doors—­and crossed the street to his hotel.