Mulligan looked at Gallagher for some time before replying. He was obviously trying to speak. His lips moved. But terror held the tip of his tongue against his upper teeth. He could only jabber inaudibly. Then at last the tongue sprang loose and the words rushed out in a flood, incoherent, almost inarticulate, like the barking of a dog. Then he gasped. He paused. When he continued, his speech was regular and almost calm. He had become possessed of that meaningless courage that comes to nervous and timorous people, when they find themselves in a position where it is useless to be careful, or to exercise any control over themselves. “What’s the meaning of this treatment of a working-man?” he cried. “By you men that are supposed to be out for the freedom of the working class. Can ye find no better man to arrest an’ carry off in the middle o’ the night than me, that’s dyin’ on me feet o’ consumption? An’ havin’, still an’ all, to work me hands off at me trade, tailorin’ an’ stitchin’ in a basement, that’s more like the cave of a wild animal than a room. Me that’s——” “Mulligan,” interrupted Gallagher impassively but sharply, “I asked you for a statement of your whereabouts, between noon to-day and midnight to-night. You better be quick about your statement. We have no time to waste.” Suddenly Mulligan’s short-lived arrogance vanished. He looked around him on all sides pathetically. He saw only stern, unsympathetic faces. He sighed and dug his hands deep into his overcoat pockets. Then he drew the pockets closely about his body and crouched low on his seat. He began to speak in a meek, timorous voice. “Lemme see,” he said, looking at the ground. “At noon to-day, or let us say dinner time, if it’s the same to you, I was lyin’ in me bed. I had a bad pain in me right side from bronchitis all the mornin’ an’ I had to stay in bed with it. At one o’clock about, the old woman gev me a cup o’ tay an’ an egg. I remember I couldn’t ate the egg. Well, that’s no matter. I had to get up then, on account of a suit that has to be made for Mick Foley the carter. It’s got to be finished be Friday. His daughter is gettin’ married next Monday to——” “Don’t mind Foley’s daughter,” snapped Gallagher. “What had she got to do with your movements? Tell us about yourself.” Mulligan began to cough furiously. His body shook and he almost fell off the form. Then the fit subsided. He sat shivering and unable to speak. “Come on, Rat,” growled Gypo, nudging him with his elbow in the ribs. “Ye might as well come out with it now as another time. Go ahead an’ tell ’em all about it.” Mulligan looked at Gypo. His lips trembled. His great dark eyes filled with tears. The terrific, massive countenance of Gypo, cunning with drunkenness, did not inspire him at that moment with fear. For some peculiar reason, his poor, shattered soul had gathered to itself just then a great courage. His withered face shone with a spiritual power. He spoke softly, tenderly, with pity.