In the wonderful August weather of 1920, my wife and I were in our London flat sighing for cooler places. The season had come to an end with less than its usual glory, and for days taxis and growlers, topheavy with luggage, had been carrying fleeing Londoners to country and to sea. The holidays had begun; but England, still limping from the late war, had lost the holiday spirit: indeed the world was restless as if it had come through painful convulsions to kick spasmodically for a while. We were restless too. Ireland was one of the world’s sores. It was near at hand. Should we go and see for ourselves? The middle of August had come, and we could not make up our minds. On the hottest of those mornings I wandered into Hyde Park, and where the riders turn their horses about, on the very last chair of the row, leaning forward, rubbing his chin on his stick, I came across 47--Agent of the secret service. He had seen me coming along, and patted the next seat in invitation as if we had met yesterday. “I thought you were at the other end of the world.” He answered, “I’m here.” How I met 47; how it came about that he revealed his secret to me; how it was that we became friends, has nothing to do with this story. Sometimes I saw a lot of him; sometimes he passed out of my life for a year. Before I had known 47 six months I had learned this, that a secret service agent, if he is to be more than a common spy, what the French term a _mouchard_, a fellow who gleans his news among servant girls and the like, must have something of a statesman’s vision to carry him on his way. He must have that sense of the future which lifts him beyond the individual and the matter of the moment to think in nations and down centuries. Thus is lessened the pang he feels as he bruises the individual, as the vivisectionist tortures the beast that beasts and men shall be freed of pain. “Come to dinner to-night,” I said. “We are always talking of you.” “I’m crossing to Ireland to-night.” “Ireland? Are you working there?” He nodded. “I’m going to make a beginning. All the fellows who are resting have been called up. Things are going from bad to worse.” “Are they worse than the papers make out?” “They are bad enough. I’ve not seen for myself yet; but the Irish Republican Army has grown into a moderately disciplined and fairly numerous fighting affair, and seems to be getting bolder. Thousands of the young men belong to it. They don’t wear uniform, and those who aren’t known to the military and police, and so aren’t on the run, live as ordinary citizens until they are called on for some stunt. They’re a secret organisation, and we ought to be the people for them.” “Are you glad to be off?” I said.