“The informer. Gypo Nolan. We found him at 61 Mount William Crescent. I am going there now. Come along. Then I’ll leave you home.” She was waking up gradually, frightened and rubbing her eyes. Gallagher fidgeted excitedly, trying to get her to her feet. “What time is it?” she asked. “A quarter to six.” “Heavens above! Mother will be gone to Mass before I get home.” “What does it matter?” “Of course it matters. I was to have gone with her this morning. For Frankie.” “Where does she go to Mass?” “Mount William Crescent.” “Well, we’re going there, too. You can go into the chapel and meet her there.” “Why? What’s at Mount William Crescent?” She was fully awake now and had got to her feet, wild eyed. Gallagher got angry and swore. He stamped his feet. “Come on quickly. I have no time. I tell you the informer has been found. He is at Mount William Crescent. I’m going down there. Come along.” “You’re going to murder him,” she gasped, with her bosom heaving. “Murder be damned!” cried Gallagher. “We’re going to wipe him out.” “You’re a beast. You’re not going to murder him, not while I can prevent it.” She rushed from the room. With a fierce oath he rushed after her. He caught her at the foot of the stairs. The sentries rushed up. She kept screaming and striking out with her clawing hands. “Keep her here,” he hissed. “Don’t let her out on any account for an hour. Then let her off and get home. Good-bye.” He looked fiercely into Mary’s eyes. His face was ashen with rage. “We spare neither man nor woman. Remember that.” Then he rushed up the stairs. “Murderer, murderer,” she cried after him, until they stuffed her mouth. CHAPTER XVIII Shapeless figures dancing on tremendous stilts, on the brink of an abyss, to the sound of rocks being tumbled about below, in the darkness, everything immense and dark and resounding, everything without shape or meaning, gloom and preponderance, yawning, yawning abysses full of frozen fog, cliffs gliding away when touched, leaving no foundation, an endless wandering through space, through screeching winds and . . . crash. Gypo awoke with a snort, perspiring with his nightmare, terrified. The old woman had at last awakened him by squeezing his nostrils between her fingers. He sat up, looked about him and saw her. He saw her weird and pale, with her white hair streaming. He was going to strike her in terror, thinking her an ogre from his dreams, when she spoke. “They’re after ye,” she hissed. “They’re after ye. They’re on the stairs.” He listened. There was nothing. Not a sound. What? Just a whistle of the wind on the roof. Ha! Something creaked. Was it the bed? No. Trup, trip, r-r-rip. Somebody had slipped on the roof.