Mrs. Mulligan, a motherly, kind-hearted woman, with blue eyes and plentiful iron-gray hair, a cap, and becomingly clad in black, stood at the side and partly toward the foot of the bed, knitting work in hand, a pitying glance resting upon her suffering husband. The lady caller, her bonnet and cloak unremoved, sat not far away, while McKenna was at that moment in the act of helping himself to a tumbler of beer, which he had not yet poured from the bottle. This was the condition of affairs, when the detective heard a heavy and hasty step upon the staircase, the door of the chamber was rudely thrust open, and big Dick Flynn, with pistol presented in one hand and a long knife brandished recklessly in the other, strode in and paused before the entrance. His aim was directed upon the sick man in the bed. Mulligan uttered a despairing wail, and, nervously throwing up the coverings, drew his head beneath them. Mrs. Mulligan, almost paralyzed with fright, dropped her knitting, raised her hands and screamed “murder!” at the top of her voice, while the lady visitor, without pausing to say “good-by,” flew past the intruder and down the stairs like a frightened deer. McKenna, who had paused in the work of decanting the contents of the bottle, heard Lawler hobbling, with crutch and stick, over the floor below, and, looking from the corner of his eye, soon saw the brave Bodymaster making rather rapid time, for a lame man, toward the gate, where his horse and buggy were standing. Then the agent had no doubt he was left to cope, single-handed, with the savage brute before him. He took in this idea in much less time than it has consumed to record the fact, and arrived at the conclusion that only calmness and the exertion of ingenuity could save his life. Dick did not shoot the sick man, who he was quite sure was Mike Lawler, but stood ready to fire. McKenna finished pouring out his beer, took up the second glass and the bottle, and with supreme impudence advanced a step toward Flynn, saying, not even forgetting his assumption of the brogue that he had used while in the country: “Sure, an’ is it yourself, Misther Flynn? An’ its tired indade ye are, afther your long walk! Tak’ a drap of the beer at Hugh’s expense!” And he proffered the bottle and glass. Flynn was, in turn, thunderstruck by the coolness of his enemy, muttered something between his shut teeth, was undecided what to do, wavered, and at last, depositing knife and pistol on the little table, took the tumbler in one hand, the beer bottle in the other, and proceeded to drink. No sooner had McKenna released bottle and glass than his right hand quickly, yet cautiously, sought the side-pocket of his coat, where rested his trusted seven-shooter. With a sudden twist of the wrist, holding a firm grasp upon the pistol stock, his thumb brought the hammer of the lock to full-cock. Still he did not display the repeater.