three in the morning
In his face was a challenge . His eyes looked out from beneath swollen eyelids . For weeks he had been as tireless as a bloodhound running through the First Ward and building his case . Policemen had seen him emerge from alleyways at three in the morning , the soft spoken boss hearing of his activities had eagerly questioned Henry Hunt , a bartender in a dive on Polk Street had felt the grip of a hand at his throat and a trembling girl of the town had knelt before him in a little dark room begging protection from his wrath . In the court room he sat waiting and watching . When the special counsel for the State , a man of great name in the courts , had finished his insistent persistent cry for the blood of the silent unemotional Brown , McGregor acted . Springing to his feet he shouted hoarsely across the silent court room to a large woman sitting among the witnesses .