When Gallagher heard the first shot, he started to his feet angrily. He thought that his orders had been disobeyed and that they had shot the prisoner before taking him to the mountains. But even as he stood up, his anger changed to terror. He heard the rushing of feet and the babble of shouting voices, calling excitedly, in a panic: “He’s escaped. He’s escaped.” “The stairs. The stairs. Up the stairs, quick.” Mary McPhillip screamed. Gallagher did not heed her. For three seconds his body was numbed with fear. He could not move a muscle. His lips blubbered. He was like an exhausted man about to have a heart attack. He stood unstably, like an uprooted tree, balancing for its fall. Mary jumped up and clung to him. He did not look at her. Then Mulholland rushed in. He was livid with fear. “He’s escaped, Commandant,” he gasped; “he’s gone.” Then Gallagher shook himself violently, thrusting Mary from him rudely. Uttering a volley of almost inarticulate oaths, he drew his pistol and grasped Mulholland by the throat. Mulholland yelled and struggled downwards to his knees. “Don’t shoot me, Commandant,” he whined. “It wasn’t my fault. That man is a devil out of hell. There’s a spell on him. Don’t fire for the love of God.” “Damn you and God,” snarled Gallagher, hurling him away. He rushed out into the hall. “After him,” he yelled. “After him. After him.” There was nobody to take any notice of him. Everybody was on the street in pursuit of Gypo, except the sentry, who stood uncertainly in the doorway of the empty cell, with his pistol in his hand and his cap turned backwards, terrified, gaping at Gallagher. Then a rush of feet came on the stairs. Four men were coming down carrying Flynn between them. “Who is that?” cried Gallagher. “It’s Flynn, Commandant,” whispered one. “His jaw is broken in a jelly,” whispered another. They arrived at the bottom of the stairs. Gallagher glanced at the prostrate, sagging body of Flynn. “Throw him in there on a form at once,” he said. “Mulholland. Come here. Where are those others?” “Here they come, Commandant.” “There’s no sight of him, Commandant,” gasped Tommy Connor, leaping down the stairs. “We thought we had better come back.” “All right,” said Gallagher. “Are you all here now?” He spoke in a terribly calm voice now. It was terrifying. Nobody answered for a moment. “Hurry on, Peter,” said Connor to somebody that appeared at the top of the stairs. It was Hackett. He rushed down, panting, with wild eyes. They were all back again. “Who’s responsible for this?” cried Gallagher.