My father, at first obdurate, would
gradually be melted by my mother's entreaties. Turning aside to
brush away a furtive and not unmanly tear, he would suddenly tear
the death-warrant to shreds, and taking up another huge placard
headed REPRIEVE, he would quickly fill it in and sign it. He would
then hand it to the Private Secretary, who would instantly start
post-haste for Cork. As the condemned man was being actually
conducted to the scaffold, the Private Secretary would appear,
brandishing the liberating document. All then would be joy, except
for the executioner, who would grind his teeth at being baulked of
his prey at the last minute.
That is, at all events, the way it would have happened in a book.
As it was, the Private Secretary came in just as usual, carrying
an ordinary official paper, precisely similar to dozens of other
official papers lying about the room.
"It is the Cork murder case, sir," he said in his everyday voice.
"The sentence has to be confirmed by you."
"A bad business, Dillon," said my father. "I have seen the Chief
Justice about it twice, and I have consulted the Judge who tried
the case, and the Solicitor and the Attorney-General.
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