As before, this agony lasted during a few moments only, during the time that Gallagher was looking at some notes on his table, with furrowed forehead. But the moments seemed years, the agony was so concentrated. Gallagher spoke again. Then again a strange change came over Gypo. For as soon as Gallagher spoke he felt an instantaneous relief. He breathed deeply. He sighed. A delicious tremor swept over his body like a cool breeze sweeping the back of a sultry sea in summer. His jaws set again. Gallagher’s voice had a different ring in it. It was softer. It was friendly. It was . . . honour bright . . . it was argumentative. Then there was a chance. . . . There must be a chance yet. . . . “What did you mean, Gypo?” cried Gallagher. “What did you mean by telling us all those lies about the Rat Mulligan? You should be ashamed of yourself. Even if you got a grudge against a man, that’s no reason why you should try to get a thing like that slung on to him. Good Lord! You’re a funny man, Gypo. What put it into your head to tell me that you saw him this evening at the Dunboy Lodging House, when we know very well that he was within one hundred yards of his own home at that very minute, three miles away or more? Were you drunk or what?” “I know I was drunk,” cried Gypo, responding joyfully to this friendly overture from Gallagher. His anger vanished. His whole soul leaned out eagerly towards Gallagher, craving support. He paused momentarily after uttering the first sentence. He remained silent, leaning forward, looking at Gallagher, intently, as if he expected Gallagher to finish the statement for him. But when Gallagher’s thin lips remained sealed, he hurtled on excitedly, as if he were stumbling recklessly through dangerous obstacles. His voice was uneven and flurried. “But I’d swear be Almighty God that it was him I saw goin’ out the door and runnin’ up the lane after Frankie. An’ if it wasn’t him it must have been somebody else like him, for I’d know the cut of his shoulders anywhere. I would if ye put my head in a bag.” “You told me,” continued Gallagher in the same friendly scolding tone, “that you followed the Rat across town until you came to . . . Where was that you said you lost sight of him? I forgot now.” Gypo started and stuttered. Good Lord, what had he said? He must say the same thing he had said before. But he could not remember saying that he followed the Rat across town. Did he say it in the public-house or did he not. His forehead was burning. The hammering at the top of his skull was blinding his eyes with pain. Almost unconsciously he put his hand to his forehead and blurted out, pathetically, on a peculiar high note, an amazingly childish and hysterical sentence. “Commandant, I’m all mixed up an’ I can remember nothin’.” It was horrid, that pitiful, forlorn cry of pain and of absolute despair coming from such a giant.