“Miss Drennan,” said Major Whiteley, “I shall have eight men brought into this room one after another, and I shall ask you to identify the man who fired a shot at your mother, the man who removed his mask before he left the room.” He rang the bell which stood on the table. The sergeant opened the door, and stood at attention. Mr. Chalmers gave his orders. “Bring the prisoners into the room one by one,” he said, “and stand each man there”--he pointed to a place opposite the window--“so that the light will fall full on his face.” Inspector Chalmers had not boasted foolishly when he said that he had taken the right men. Acting on such knowledge as the police possess in every country, he had arrested the leading members of the Sinn Fein Club. Of two of them he was surer than he was of any of the others. Murnihan was secretary of the club, and the most influential member of it, Denis Ryan had gone about the town looking like a man stricken with a deadly disease ever since the night of the murder. The lawyer who employed him as a clerk complained that he seemed totally incapable of doing his work. The police felt sure that either he or Murnihan fired the shot; that both of them, and probably a dozen men besides, knew who did. Six men were led into the office one after another. Mary Drennan looked at each of them and shook her head. It came to Murnihan’s turn. He marched in defiantly, staring insolently at the police-officer and at the magistrate. He displayed no emotion when he saw Mary Drennan. She looked at him, and once more shook her head. “Are you sure?” said Chalmers. “Quite sure?” “I am sure,” she said. “He is not the man I saw.” “Remove him,” said Chalmers. Murnihan stood erect for a moment before he turned to follow the sergeant. With hand raised to the salute he made profession of the faith that was in him: “Up the rebels!” he said. “Up Sinn Fein! God save Ireland!” Denis Ryan was led in and set in the appointed place. He stood there trembling. His face was deadly pale. The fingers of his hands twitched. His head was bowed. Only once did he raise his eyes and let them rest for a moment on Mary’s face. It was as if he was trying to convey some message to her, to make her understand something which he dared not say. She looked at him steadily. Her face had been white before. Now colour, like a blush, covered her cheeks. Chalmers leaned forward eagerly, waiting for her to speak or give some sign. Major Whiteley tapped his fingers nervously on the table before him. “That is not the man,” said Mary Drennan. “Look again,” said Chalmers. “Make no mistake.” She turned to him and spoke calmly, quietly: “I am quite certain. That is not the man.” “Damn!” said Chalmers. “The girl has failed us, after all. Take him away, sergeant!” Denis Ryan had covered his face with his hands when Mary spoke. He turned to follow the sergeant from the room, a man bent and beaten down with utter shame.