I had said rather more than I meant out of exasperation; but it was Mrs. Slaney’s fault. I made my way into the street thinking over my theory. Political patriots held no monopoly. There were heroes that worked and died unheard of, heroes of exploration, of medicine, of religion, of literature, anything one liked to name. My musings came suddenly to an end. I had almost stepped in a pool of blood. It began halfway down the steps of a house, and continued to the gutter. It looked as if some one had carried a bucket of blood and had thrown it down the steps. I looked at it with a feeling of nausea, which increased at the sight of a dog’s footsteps running through it. Far along the pavement those bloody footsteps led me on my way. Here the owner of them had lingered sniffing, here he had chatted to a friend, here he had hesitated. It was a long time before the little red footsteps became less plain, and still longer before they died out altogether. I turned a corner, and a hundred yards in front of me lay another pool of blood. The horror of killing swept over me again. These two pools stirred something in me that the riddled windows had never done. Those red footsteps had brought the red ruin that was upon the land home to me far more than any raid or fear of a raid had done, more than any ambush. They seemed to sum up the whole case against war, to lay it red and bare upon the pavement. Ireland could never do without England, nor England without Ireland, for man cannot do without man. The next morning we were raided for the last time. It was at eight o’clock. Mrs. Slaney had gone to Mass, and I was alone in the house, except for O’Grady, who had finished polishing the brass, and had retired to his own quarters to make ready to go to work. I was used to my sitting-room filling suddenly with men armed to the teeth, therefore it was not upsetting to welcome them again. I had a pile of _Irish Bulletins_, the forbidden organ of Sinn Fein, in the bottom drawer of my desk, and the recollection of them was the only thing that made me uneasy. “Where’s Mrs. Fitzgerald?” demanded an old friend with a scar running down his face. I glanced outside before I answered. Mrs. Fitzgerald was considered formidable enough to merit more lorries and armoured cars than her husband. Wherever I looked were Auxiliaries, and the house was filled with them. “Mrs. Fitzgerald has gone. I’ve had her flat for two months now,” I answered. “What’s your name?” I gave it. He softened perceptibly. “You have the same Christian name as my wife. Now we shall get on really well.” “I’m glad.” “All these things are Mrs. Fitzgerald’s, I know them,” he said, looking round the room like an auctioneer in fancy dress. “I took the flat over from her.” “That’s her desk?” “Yes.” “I must search it.” “Please do. You’ll only find my manuscript in there; but do go through it. I’d love you to. I’d like to be sure somebody read it. Publishers are such unkind people.”