“Listen to me, Bartly,” she said. “You remember me when I was a good girl an’ when I was a member o’ . . . ye know yersel’ . . . Well, so was he, wasn’t he? Well, can ye tell me how did Frankie McPhillip get plugged? Who got the twenty quid that the Farmers’ Union gave out? Where did he get the money? I’m not shoutin’ any names. No names, no pack drills. But ye can guess for yersel’. Where did he get his money from? Was it be robbin’ a sailor at the back o’ Cassidy’s same as he told me in the pub? Was it?” She suddenly threw her hands over her head and clawed the air, shrieking. They jumped up and caught her. Mulholland got to his feet quietly. He stole out into the street, avoiding the people who came rushing up to Biddy Burke’s door, attracted by the screaming. Mulholland chuckled as he crossed the street. He would have plenty of news for Gallagher. After this there would be little difficulty in his getting McPhillip’s job on the Head-quarters Staff. He stole quietly into the hallway of Aunt Betty’s house. He went noiselessly up the stairs without attracting the attention of the revellers who were still “on the tear.” He reached the landing. There were three doors, with light streaming through each of them. He listened at each door. The third was the right one. He stood straight. He lifted the latch suddenly and strode into the room. He called out as he did so dramatically: “Come on, Gypo, it’s time for ye to be comin’ with me.” For a moment he could see nobody, owing to his excitement and the thick mist of smoke and unescaped vapours which filled the room. He stood within the door with his feet spread out wide on the bare moth-eaten boards of the floor, with his right hand in his pocket fingering his revolver. His heart was beating wildly. Then he became aware of Gypo’s presence. He felt that peculiar movement in his head that the realization of Gypo’s presence always caused, a little snapping movement of unreasoning terror. Then he heard Gypo’s voice, heavy and hoarse with drunkenness, but cordial and friendly and distinctly patronizing. “Hello, Bartly. Sit down an’ have a drink. Plenty time yet.” Then he turned his head towards the fireplace and saw Gypo. Gypo was sitting on the floor to the right of the fire, in a corner, in half-darkness, bare to the waist, with his trousered legs stretched out at a wide angle, sitting bolt upright, a bottle gripped in his right hand between his knees, his feet bare.