“Indeed and I have. He comes on his bicycle after dark, and he knocks and she lets him in. Did ye hear the set-to with the mistress and Mrs. Fitzgerald over the key last night? Now she won’t give Mrs. Fitzgerald a second latchkey, and himself there standing on the steps of a night with all the Black-and-Tans in Dublin looking at him. I’ve seen him indeed; but I wouldn’t know him, for he’s that quiet he won’t look at ye, and he’s muffled up round the neck that ye can’t say what’s his eyes and what’s his chin.” “Well, let’s do our parts and not talk.” “And who should I be talking to? There’s only O’Grady and Polly, who’s sharp enough herself for a young girl, God save her, and on Sundays I go to my sister regular, and she so full of her own troubles that she’s no time for mine. Will you be wanting your tea now?” “No, thank you, Mrs. O’Grady; I’ll make it myself later.” “And what would you be doing that for at all? I’ll be wetting my own tea when I do go down, and I’ll do yours at the same time and send it up by Polly.” Mrs. O’Grady was about to withdraw when she waxed enthusiastic. “The baby, he’s a dote!” she exclaimed, “a dote, and exactly like his father, and there are two beautiful boys away at school, real dotes. There’s a photo of them on the mantelpiece. My legs are run off me this minute what with the mistress upstairs and Mrs. Fitzgerald downstairs, and it’s extra she’s after charging for the flat; but it’s no extra she’s after giving me.” “Well, I hope they’ll be all right.” “Indeed, mum, and I don’t like it, not at all, at all. Only the other morning, when the luggage was outside the door, three men passed and looked down into the area, and Polly says they were Black-and-Tans in civies.” “Rubbish, Mrs. O’Grady, they couldn’t know already.” “Couldn’t they?” She tossed her head. “Couldn’t they?” she repeated darkly. “There’s trouble coming to this house, and don’t you forget it.” She gave a sniff and departed. CHAPTER XVII CAPTURE OF A CABINET MINISTER Himself was out; but I was not alone. Mrs. Slaney sat upon my sofa, and Mrs. Slaney smoked a cigarette, and once again Mrs. Slaney poured into my dulled ears the story of Ireland’s martyrdom. “It’s going to be a cold night,” she said, in the middle of a fiery sentence. “Cold?” My voice was like the night. “I must take my bulbs in from the window; I don’t want them frost nipped now.” I rose and went to the window and opened it with difficulty, for the sash had never been mended. “I really mustn’t stay long,” said Mrs. Slaney, staying where she was. “I have letters to write. Are those tulips? They have come on.” “Yes.” I carefully placed the last pot on the floor, shut the window carefully, and crawled up from my lowly position on the floor. There was silence for a moment after that. Mrs. Slaney smoked thoughtfully, and I returned to my seat. Suddenly the silence was broken by a shrill whistle. It made us start.