bid," said Mr. Cunningham.

"It doesn't pain you now?" asked Mr. M'Coy.

Mr. M'Coy had been at one time a tenor of some reputation. His wife, who
had been a soprano, still taught young children to play the piano at low
terms. His line of life had not been the shortest distance between two
points and for short periods he had been driven to live by his wits. He
had been a clerk in the Midland Railway, a canvasser for advertisements
for The Irish Times and for The Freeman's Journal, a town traveller
for a coal firm on commission, a private inquiry agent, a clerk in the
office of the Sub-Sheriff, and he had recently become secretary to the
City Coroner. His new office made him professionally interested in Mr.
Kernan's case.

"Pain? Not much," answered Mr. Kernan. "But it's so sickening. I feel as
if I wanted to retch off."

"That's the boose," said Mr. Cunningham firmly.

"No," said Mr. Kernan. "I think I caught cold on the car. There's
something keeps coming into my throat, phlegm or----"

"Mucus." said Mr. M'Coy.

"It keeps coming like from down in my throat; sickening."

"Yes, yes," said Mr. M'Coy, "that's the thorax."

He looked at Mr. Cunningham and Mr. Power at the same time with an air
of challenge. Mr. Cunningham nodded his head rapidly and Mr. Power said:

"Ah, well, all's well that ends well."

"I'm very much obliged to you, old man," said the invalid.

Mr. Power waved his hand.

"Those other two fellows I was with----"

"Who were you with?" asked Mr. Cunningham.

"A chap. I don't know his name. Damn it now, what's his name? Little
chap with sandy hair...."

"And who else?"

"Harford."

"Hm," said Mr. Cunningham.

When Mr. Cunningham made that remark, people were silent. It was known
that the speaker had secret sources of information. In this case the
monosyllable had a moral intention. Mr. Harford sometimes formed one
of a little detachment which left the city shortly after noon on Sunday
with the purpose of arriving as soon as possible at some public-house on
the outskirts of the city where its members duly qualified themselves as
bona fide travellers. But his fellow-travellers had never consented
to overlook his origin. He had begun life as an obscure financier by
lending small sums of money to workmen at usurious interest. Later on he
had become the partner of a very fat, short gentleman, Mr. Goldberg, in
the Liffey Loan Bank. Though he had never embraced more than the Jewish
ethical c