“You damned fool!” he said. “Do you want to hang for it? Do you want us all to hang for this night’s work?”
He dragged him from the house. With his arm round the waist of the shuddering man he pulled him along and field to field until they reached a by-road which led into the town.
Three days later Inspector Chalmers, of the Royal Irish Constabulary, and Major Whiteley, the magistrate, sat together in the office of the police barrack stations.
“I’ve got the men who did it,” said Chalmers. “I’ve got the whole eight of them, and I can lay my hands on all the rest of their cursed club any minute I like.”
“Have you any evidence?” asked Whiteley. “Any evidence on which to convict?”
“I’ve no evidence worth speaking of,” said Chalmers, “unless the girl can identify them. But I know I’ve got the right men.”
“The girl won’t know them,” said Whiteley. “They’re sure to have worn masks. And even if she did recognise one of them she’d be afraid to speak. In the state this country’s in everyone is afraid to speak.”
“The girl won’t be afraid,” said Chalmers. “I know her father, and I knew her mother that’s dead, and I know the girl. There never was a Drennan yet that was afraid to speak, I’ve sent the sergeant to fetch her. She ought to be here in a few minutes, and then you’ll see if she’s afraid.”
Ten minutes later Mary Drennan was shown into the room by the police-sergeant. The two men who were waiting for her received her kindly.
“Sit down, Miss Drennan!” said Major Whiteley. “I’m very sorry to trouble you, and I’m very sorry to have to ask you to speak about a matter which must be painful to you. But I want you to tell me, as well as you can recollect, exactly what happened on the night your mother was murdered.”