“Comrade Mulholland,” he said, “will be in charge. When I leave this room you will cast lots in the usual manner. You will then take the prisoner in the motor-van to any part of the mountain road, about half-way between Killakee and Glencree. There is bog on either side of the road. At any spot in that locality, you will be at least two miles from the nearest house. Execute the sentence there. Bury the body some distance from the road. Just drop it into a pool of bog water. When you have finished the job go straight ahead across the mountain to Enniskerry and come back to the city by another route. There are several. You can choose the most convenient. Report to me at head-quarters as soon as you come back, Bartly. I will wait for you there. Carry on, comrades. Get the prisoner away as quickly as possible. Use force if necessary to prevent him from creating a disturbance, but you must on no account execute the sentence until you get to the mountains.” Gallagher left the room. He went across the passage to the room where Mary McPhillip was sitting alone. All the armed men were gathered in the guardroom at the foot of the stairs. Tommy Connor had come in now. He was explaining something to them in a hoarse voice. Two men were stationed outside the door of the cell. The sentry paced up and down the passage again. Gallagher sat down on the wooden form beside Mary McPhillip. He did not look at her. He stared at the floor. His forehead twitched. His face was very drawn. “We have discovered the informer, Mary,” he said in a low voice. “Your brother will be shortly avenged. It was Gypo Nolan who betrayed him.” There was silence. Gallagher had uttered the last sentence dramatically, like a tremendous revelation. But Mary did not speak. He looked at her. “Mary,” he said again, a little louder. “It was Gypo Nolan who informed on your brother.” She shuddered and looked at him sadly in the gloom. “I knew that,” she said, “all along. Poor fellow.” “What?” he gasped, staring at her. “What are you going to do with him, Dan?” she asked, almost inaudibly. “I hope you’re not . . .” She stopped. Gallagher looked at her sharply, in wonder, suspiciously, as if he had suddenly proved to himself that all his calculations had been wrong about something. “Surely what, Mary?” he said at length, almost timorously. “You’re not going to kill him,” she said. “That would only be another murder, added to . . . to the other. It wouldn’t help the dead. Lord have mercy on him.”