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.

“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. . . .”