“This great round-up was bringing in a mass of information, and each new bit of news opened up fresh avenues. I soon gathered from this man’s exclamations that he was going through the latest batch of information, and arranging fresh raids. “He mentioned some name or other. ‘I am going to get the blighter to-night, I think,’ he said. All the while we were there he continued to run his finger up and down the pages and give instructions; and one could visualise the lower end of the Castle yard and the great gates through which we had come near which lorries, shaking with armed men, waited to be loosed in torrents down the streets. “My ‘cousin’ went to something, which was half a desk and half a table, and opening it with an effort, for there was a great weight of books and papers on top, he pulled out an automatic pistol somewhat the worse for wear, took it to pieces, put it together again, loaded it, and fumbling among debris at the bottom of the desk, he rescued a spare magazine and a handful of nickel bullets. All these things were presently handed over to me.” His wife interrupted him. “Don’t tell me what you have brought back is no good?” “No; it’s tip-top,” answered 47, hastily. “It wants a good clean, that’s all. I’ll fix it up to-morrow. Anyhow, I stuck it into a pocket, and we went back to the Central for my ‘cousin’s’ guns, for he was going to look up his wife in her flat. The one which was as long as his arm he thrust into a tremendous pocket, and a second he kept in another pocket, with his hand on it. So we sallied forth, and I have no doubt on the way passed many a citizen of one persuasion or the other prepared for eventualities like ourselves. “In Grafton Street our ways parted. My ‘cousin’ lifted his eyebrows and disappeared.” “Are you still hungry?” his wife asked, as soon as 47 had done speaking. “I’ll cook you something presently.” “That’ll do me,” he answered, nodding his head. “This early curfew is the devil. You people haven’t got too much time.” “There’s an hour,” I retorted, looking at my watch. “It wasn’t much of a pilgrimage here. You’re pretty snug. Up in the roof isn’t as bad as it sounds.” “No place like a top story,” 47 said. “No one has any right on your stairs then. And there’s usually a skylight; and a man can put up a good show through the skylight. The skylight here is pretty handy. Come and look.” “You’re not taking him on the roof?” his wife remonstrated. “He can put on a coat. We won’t be a minute.” “He’ll freeze.” “Not me,” I said, getting up. “Stick on something,” 47 suggested, getting up too. “It isn’t a bad night.” “You’re off your heads!” his wife retorted, from her chair by the fire.