Mary Drennan, white faced and wretched, told her story as she had told it before to the police-officer. She said that her father was absent from home, taking bullocks to the fair, that she and her mother sat up late, that they went to bed together about eleven o’clock. She spoke in emotionless, even tones, even when she told how six men had burst into the kitchen.
“Could you recognise any of them?” said Major Whiteley.
“I could not. They wore masks, and had hay tied over their clothes.”
She told about her mother’s defiance, about the scuffle, about the firing of the shot. Then she stopped short. Of what happened afterwards she had said nothing to the police-officer, but Major Whiteley questioned her.
“Did any of the men speak? Did you know their voices?”
“One spoke,” she said, “but I did not know the voice.”
“Did you get any chance of seeing their faces, or any of their faces?”
“The man who fired the shot took off his mask before he left the room, and I saw his face.”
“Ah!” said Major Whiteley. “And would you recognise him if you saw him again?”
He leaned forward eagerly as he asked the question. All depended on her answer.