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
