Narrowing his eyes, he set out at a smart pace in the direction of McPhillip’s home in Titt Street. He took his hands out of his pockets and swung them by his sides after the manner of a policeman. He threw his head back and towered like a giant over those whom he passed. He passed them, almost over them, like a being utterly remote, a unique creation. CHAPTER IV Titt Street was in turmoil like an ant-hill that has been rooted up by the ponderous hoof of a cow. Under the scattered street lamps, between the parallel rows of two-storied, red-brick houses, groups of wild-eyed men were talking. The pale light of the lamps showed the drizzling rain falling like steam on their rough, dirty clothes, on their thick-veined necks, on their excited faces, on their gnarled hands that were raised in gesticulation. Their voices filled the hollow darkness of the street with a hushed murmur, that rose and fell turbulently, like the chattering of a torrent coming through rocks. Their voices were nervous, as if they awaited a storm at sea. Old women with shawls over their heads flitted about like shadows. They darted from doorway to doorway, talking, making threatening gestures at something remote, crossing themselves with their haggard faces turned upwards to the sky. Young women walked arm-in-arm, slowly, up and down the street. They looked at No. 44 as they passed it, in silence, with awe in their open, red lips. No. 44 was the centre of interest. The horror that had come to it had aroused the whole street. It had aroused the whole quarter. Three streets away, bar attendants stood gaping behind their counters, while some man, with an excited red face and a big mouth, recounted the manner of Frank McPhillip’s death, with oaths and frenzied gesticulations. Everywhere, in the streets, in the public-houses, in the tenement kitchens, where old red-nosed men craned forward their shrivelled necks to hear the dreadful news, one word was whispered with fear and hatred. It was the word “Informer.” Gypo heard that word as he reached the junction of Titt Street and Bryan Road—a long wide road, lined with little shops, the sidewalks strewn with papers, little heaps of dirt in the gutters, two tram-car lines rusted by the drizzling rain, groups of loafers at every lamp-post, at the public-house doors and on the Canal Bridge, where the road disappeared abruptly over the horizon, as if it had fallen over a precipice into space. He was passing Ryan’s public-house that stood at the corner, half in Titt Street, half in Bryan Road. The word came to him through the open door of the public bar. He had slowed down his pace on reaching the neighbourhood and when he heard the word uttered, he brought his left leg up to the right and instead of thrusting it forward for another pace, he dropped it heavily but noiselessly to the wet pavement of red and white glazed brick diamonds, with which the front of the public-house was decorated.