He who seemed to be the leader of the four (“Marshall, chief revenue inspector,” Lanagan whispered to me), took the man’s pulse after the examination was ended. No one had spoken. In the faces of all, as far as I could detect in the murky light of the smoky chimney of an oil lamp, was a set, grim look; not the look that officers usually wear when there has been a killing or a successful capture in a crime. Marshall straightened up. He said, solemnly: “Billy, I think you are going. What have you got to say? Any message?” “No, Jim,” said the man on the floor, weakly. “You got me right. I went into the thing with my eyes open. Only don’t ask me to squeal on the others. I got what I deserved, I guess. I’ve brought shame to the service and I’m ready to pass. Thank God, thank God,” he burst out with sudden choking, “the wife is not here--passed out last year, you know; and there never were any kiddies. No one to suffer but you boys that I’ve disgraced.” A tear rolled from his eyes to the floor. “Can I say a word to him, Marshall?” It was Lanagan who spoke. The other men had bowed their heads. On one or two faces I could see a tear, for all the wetness that the rain had left there. “Enright,” said Lanagan, kneeling down beside the stricken man, “you know you are passing. Make a clean breast. _Who killed Mrs. Stockslager?_” His eyes closed and he seemed to shrink as though trying to hug the floor he was lying upon. “Whisky!” came Lanagan’s sharp whisper. Unconsciously he was taking command of the situation, asserting his natural leadership as he always did in tense moments. Marshall passed him a pocket flask and he forced a sip to Enright’s lips, holding his head up with his left arm. The eyes opened. “_I did._” “Oh, God, Billy! No, no! Not that, not that!” It was Marshall. He broke down and sobbed like a boy. Twenty-five years he had been in the federal blue with Billy Enright, one in the revenue, the other in the customs service. “Yes--_I did!_ Jim, get me a priest! Don’t let me die like this! For old time’s sake, Jim!” The train was whistling on its return. “We’re taking you right in,” said Lanagan, soothingly. “We’ll have a priest for you. Why did you kill her?” Enright motioned for the flask with his free arm. Lanagan gave him a long pull. For a time at least his voice was stronger. “She was threatening to tip off the gang. She used to work with us. She was well paid. She didn’t know I was in the service. She found it out some way. I came out one day to talk over with her about her threats. I’d been drinking, worrying over fear of exposure. She wouldn’t listen to reason. She was a wolf. She goaded me crazy, I guess. She taunted me about being a traitor to the country I served. Well, I lost my head. I grabbed the butcher knife and killed her. So help me God as I am about to die, that’s the truth.” The eyes closed for a space, and then he continued: