As soon as Himself and I had had dinner, we went to look up 47’s wife. There was no time to waste if we were to get back before curfew. I was longing to see her after all this time.

They lived in a top story. A dilapidated servant opened the door, and gave us a peculiar, sidelong look. She did not know us, but she stood aside and made no effort to show the way up.

The house seemed grubby in the dim light of the hall. The windows showed the city’s dust and fog; in the better light the curtains would have revealed the dirty hands of maids who had tended the fires and then pulled the curtains across the windows. How well I knew it all! And then the house grew more and more dilapidated as we mounted. There was an ancient meat safe at the foot of the last lot of stairs with a cat asleep on top of it.

The final flight of stairs was bare, and we made the steps creak as we went up.

Her ears were ever atune to footsteps, and the sound of ours brought her out on the landing.

“You!” There was relief in her voice.

“Hallo! All well? My dear, you look seedy.”

She laughed, but her laughter did not ring true.

“It was nice of you to come.” She shut the door behind us.

“You are seedy,” I said, looking at her carefully.

“I’m all right,” she answered. “This is funk; pure, unadulterated funk has brought me to this. I’m behaving in a beastly manner, really. The only thing I haven’t done is run away. Some day I’m afraid I will.”

“But your husband’s all right?”

“For how long? To-day? To-morrow? There’s not a door that will lock. You know Irish doors. He’s out now. I made him go and get a gun. I said if he didn’t I wouldn’t stay another day. One man against a dozen hasn’t much chance; but an armed man can do more than a man with nothing.”

Himself nodded.

“It’s terrible—terrible,” 47’s wife went on. “There is no one to talk to about the risks. My husband won’t talk. He thinks it’s bad for me. But it’s driving everything in, it’s strangling me. I can’t sleep. I’m always afraid. Sometimes I hear noises and footsteps, I am afraid of the noises; sometimes there is silence, I am afraid of the silence. People come to see me. I laugh and talk, and try to show I am listening, and really every sound outside is more important to me. Even up here I can hear the front door bell ring. I haven’t felt so bad this afternoon because I’m alone, and if they called it wouldn’t matter.”

“You’re safe in this house for a time, anyway,” Himself declared. “Sinn Fein isn’t going to repeat the dose just yet. Every one is lying pretty low. No one wants to come into the limelight.”

“I realise all that in the day; but at night it’s so different.”

“Night’s really the safe time,” said Himself. “I should think it’s not much of a job trying to get about during curfew.”

She laughed shakily. “My husband has said all that before. I know I’m a coward; but I shall be better if we have the gun. I’m thinking, thinking what we’ll do if they come—all night long I’m thinking. We’ve only one heavy stick, which I hang on the end of the bed. I’ve planned it out. When they knock at the door, my husband will open it, and as the first man comes in I will throw the water jug at him, and my husband will hit his wrist with the stick. He may drop his gun, and we can get hold of it. My husband says assassins bore him, and won’t talk about it, and so I have to keep my feelings to myself, and they are going in—in all the time.”

“Talk to us now,” I said.

“I’ll put on the kettle,” she answered, getting up. “It won’t take long boiling. What’s that?”

I had heard nothing. She leaned out of the window.

“Well?”

“There’s a car,” she said slowly. “It looks like a Government car. There are five or six men.”

I looked out. “I know that front man,” I cried. “He lives near us. We met him at the Shelbourne once.” I beckoned to Himself to look.

“I know him,” she admitted. “What does he want? He would never be sent here with a message. We told him to keep away.”

The men descended from the car and came into the house.

“He’ll bring in every Sinn Feiner in Dublin at his heels,” I suggested.

“My dear, he’s not important enough, though he thinks so himself.”

In a minute there was the sound of single footsteps coming up the stairs.

“He’s alone, anyway.”

The next moment the man of the beautiful waistcoats and socks came into the room. He was subtly changed. His hair was less sleek, his clothes were not so well brushed, and the silk handkerchief, which he used to beat his brow and mouth, had got crumpled.

“Oh, my God!” he exclaimed, as he appeared. “What a lot of stairs!” He saw us, hesitated, and said to 47’s wife, “How’s our friend?”

“He’s all right,” she answered coldly.

“Good! Went up to the Castle on Sunday. Saw them there safe—by Gad! so safe. Lots of fellows, well fed fellows, happy, cheery fellows. They had a long list of names, all the brotherhood, and they were ticking off the chaps who were killed. ‘How’s 47?’ I asked. ‘All right,’ said one chap, after a glance at the list; ‘at least, we’ve had no word through about him.’ ‘My God!’ I said, ‘I must get along and see for myself.’”

“Who are your five friends?”

“An armed guard. You couldn’t expect me to go about without an armed guard. Every Shinner in Dublin is at my heels.”

“My dear fellow, didn’t it strike you that by bringing an armed guard clattering into the hall you would be likely to turn the Sinn Fein attention to us?”

Our friend laid a soothing hand on 47’s wife.

“Have you been out much since the affair?” she asked abruptly.

“Every day and every night. No peace. Nothing like that about me. But it doesn’t matter, for I can’t sleep. My God! and I was told this was money for nothing! Money for nothing, and the life filled a man full of joy!”

“You’ve got nerves.”

“Nerves! By Gad, nerves! Hear her.” He pivoted round towards us, showed he had recognised us, and smiling, said, “How are you?” He came across and laid a hand on my shoulder. He was the type of man who touches women. Then he jerked round again to 47’s wife.

“Pitchforked in, I was. Never knew a thing. Didn’t know enough to keep my mouth shut, or to change my clothes when I went down the slums. Looked on all men as brothers. Thought they loved me as I loved them. I haven’t slept for months. Let me talk. Let me get it off my chest. I’m all for peace, I am. I always have been, and somehow I always seem to get flung into some beastly mess. Some one said, ‘Come and chase Shinners, old bean.’ And here I am, but the beastly Shinner’s always chasing me. Every time I go out some one follows me, sometimes a man, sometimes a woman. The life’s killing me. Watkins—you know old Watkins—he and I got digs together at last, and took it in turn to keep watch while the other slept. I got wind up in case he dropped off. I didn’t dare go to bed without my guns in case some one came in, and I always had the feeling that I’d shoot Watkins by mistake some night, or get the old woman in the stomach when she came in with the hot water in the morning.”

“Hush, old man,” said 47’s wife.

“Hush! That’s it. Hush! If I don’t talk, I’ll go mad! None of the fellows at the Central will talk. We’re all in the Central Hotel now. They hang in corners brooding on their sorrows. They don’t care about mine. The chaps at the Castle don’t talk. They don’t know what it is to be out and alone.”

“It’s what you’re here for.”

“Splendid! What I’m here for!” our friend exclaimed. “I’ll be killed next! Mark my words. No; don’t let’s talk of death. It makes me feel all hot and bothered.”

“Hush,” said she, again.

He put a hand on her arm. “I must be on the move. I’ll tell the fellows at the Castle 47 is all right.” He came across and patted my shoulder, and waved to Himself. And then he clattered down the stairs to his escort in the hall. A minute later we heard the engine throb and the lorry drove away.

The kettle was boiling, and we drew our chairs up to the fire.