"All right, now, Gully!" he began, in a hard, metallic tone. "What is it you wish to say?" All waited expectantly.
Apparently with an effort Gully roused himself out of the deep reverie into which be had sunk, and for a space he gazed with blood-shot eyes into the calm, stern face of his questioner. Then, with a sort of dreamy sighing ejaculation, he roused himself and, leaning back in his chair, began the following remarkable story. He spoke in a recklessly earnest manner and with a sort of deadly composure that startled and impressed his hearers in no little degree.
"Listen, Inspector," he said. "A good deal of the story I'm going to tell you has no bearing on the—the—the—case in hand. There's no use in you taking all this down. I understand procedure"—he smiled wanly—"therefore, with your permission I'll go ahead, and you can construct a brief statement on your own lines afterwards, which I will sign."
Kilbride bowed his head in assent to the other's request.
"The name I bear now," began the prisoner,—"'Ruthven Gully'—is my real name, though knocking around the world like I've been since I was a kid of sixteen, and the many queer propositions I've been up against in my time, why—I've found it expedient to use various aliases.
"For instance"—he eyed the inspector keenly—"I wasn't known as 'Gully' that time Cronje nailed us all at Doornkop, Kilbride, in 'ninety-six. . . ."
Kilbride uttered a startled oath. Shaken out of his habitual stern composure he stared at the man before him in sheer amazement. "Good God!" he cried, "The 'Jameson Raid!' . . . Now I know you, man!—you're—you're—wait a bit! I've got it on the tip of my tongue—Mor—Mor—Mordaunt, by gad! . . . that's what you called yourself then. Ever since I sat with you on that case I've been turning it over in my head where in ever I'd fore-gathered with you before. It was your moustache which fooled me—you were clean-shaven then. . . Well, Well! . . ."
He was silent awhile, overcome by the discovery. "Aye!" he resumed in an altered voice, "I've got good cause to remember you, Mor—Gully, I mean. You certainly saved my life that day . . . when we were lying in that donga together. I was hit pretty bad, and you stood 'em off. You were a wonderful shot, I recollect. I saw you flop out six Doppers—one after the other."
He turned to Slavin. "Sergeant!" he said quietly, "You'd better leave the leg-irons on, but remove his handcuffs—for the time-being, anyway. . . ." He addressed himself to the prisoner with a sort of sad sternness. "It's little I can do for you now, Gully . . . but I can do that, at least. . . ."
Slavin complied with his officer's request. Gully's huge chest heaved once, and he bowed his head in silent acknowledgment of Kilbride's act of leniency.