His voice broke, and he left the sentence unfinished. For some few seconds the inspector remained motionless, with bent head, just looking—and looking—in deep, reflective silence at the doomed man who importuned him.
"Am I to understand that you wish to make a statement, Gully?" he said, in even, passionless tones. "Remember!—you've been charged and warned, man—whatever you say'll be used in evidence against you at your trial."
The other, hesitating a moment, swallowed nervously in his agitation.
"Yes," he said huskily, "I know—but that's all right! . . . As I said before—it can make little or no difference . . . in my case. . . ."
Turning, Kilbride silently motioned to McSporran to unlock the cell-door.
The huge manacled prisoner emerged, and shuffled awkwardly towards the inner room, closely attended by his armed escort.
Slavin and Yorke, seated together at one end of the table, arose as Gully entered. Standing curiously still, as if carved in stone, their bitter eyes alone betraying their emotions, silently they gazed at the huge, gaunt, unkempt figure that came shambling towards them.
Gully halted and stared long and fixedly at the relentless faces of the two men whose grim, dogged vigilance had led to his undoing. Over his blood-streaked, haggard face there swept the peculiar ruthless smile which they knew so well; and he raised his manacled hands in a semblance of a salute.
"Morituri te salufant!" he muttered in his harsh, growling bass—the speech nevertheless of an educated man.
"Eh, fwhat?" queried Slavin vaguely. The classical allusion was lost on him, but Kilbride and Yorke exchanged a grim, meaning smile as they recalled the ancient formula of the Roman arena. McSporran pushed forward a chair, into which Gully dropped heavily. Chin cupped in hands, and elbows resting on knees he remained for a space in an attitude of profound thought. The inspector, resuming his chair at the table, motioned his subordinates to be seated, and reached forward for some writing materials.