“Yes,” said Mary. “I should know him if I saw him again.”
Major Whiteley leaned across to Mr. Chalmers, who sat beside him.
“If you’ve got the right man,” he whispered, “we’ll hang him on the girl’s evidence.”
“I’ve got the right man, sure enough,” said Chalmers.
“Miss Drennan,” said Major Whiteley, “I shall have eight men brought into this room one after another, and I shall ask you to identify the man who fired a shot at your mother, the man who removed his mask before he left the room.”
He rang the bell which stood on the table.
The sergeant opened the door, and stood at attention. Mr. Chalmers gave his orders.
“Bring the prisoners into the room one by one,” he said, “and stand each man there”—he pointed to a place opposite the window—“so that the light will fall full on his face.”
Inspector Chalmers had not boasted foolishly when he said that he had taken the right men. Acting on such knowledge as the police possess in every country, he had arrested the leading members of the Sinn Fein Club. Of two of them he was surer than he was of any of the others. Murnihan was secretary of the club, and the most influential member of it, Denis Ryan had gone about the town looking like a man stricken with a deadly disease ever since the night of the murder. The lawyer who employed him as a clerk complained that he seemed totally incapable of doing his work. The police felt sure that either he or Murnihan fired the shot; that both of them, and probably a dozen men besides, knew who did.
Six men were led into the office one after another. Mary Drennan looked at each of them and shook her head. It came to Murnihan’s turn. He marched in defiantly, staring insolently at the police-officer and at the magistrate.