I went out on the landing. By this time Polly had opened the front door, and figures in uniform poured into the hall. “Open that door,” the first man ordered, pointing at the Fitzgeralds’ sitting-room. “Wide.” Polly obeyed, and the stream poured in. Others were coming up the stairs when a shout, “Got him!” halted them. “It’s all right, boys!” The people on the stairs went down into the hall again, and began to go through the pockets of the coats hanging there. “His bicycle!” exclaimed the officer in charge. “Put her on board, some one.” Mrs. Slaney and I leant over the stairs. I wondered if Mrs. Fitzgerald felt as upset as I did. The murmur of voices mounted all the time from the flat below. There was an occasional laugh. Through the half-opened door, which showed us the sitting-room, we could see the baby laughing and being handed round by the Auxiliaries. The infant Fergus created a good atmosphere, and seemed delighted with his new friends, who had wakened him to search the cot. Finally Mrs. Slaney gathered herself together for the attack. The Auxiliaries seemed delighted with their capture, and were obviously ready to be amiable. Mrs. Slaney descended upon them, her wooden heels tapping as she walked, and the light from the hall lamp glinted on a tortoiseshell comb that rose from her hair. “Who is the officer in command of the raid?” she demanded. A youthful Auxiliary turned towards her, the baby kicking in his arms. His revolvers rested peacefully round his waist and in holsters on his legs. “The officer in charge.” He beamed upon her as a friend. A tall gaunt man, with a face like a red Indian, appeared in the doorway. “Who wants me?” “Are you the officer in charge of this raid?” “Yes, madam. Is there anything I can do for you?” “Are you the blackguard who murdered those unfortunate boys at Drumcondra the other night?” A cold shiver ran down my spine. Mrs. O’Grady, hovering in the shadows in the hall, withdrew to the basement. I heard the shuffle of her sandshoes. “Will some one take the baby, please?” Mrs. Fitzgerald, unconscious of the question or of the storm it raised, came out of the sitting-room. “He ought to be asleep. Where’s Mrs. O’Grady? She could take him downstairs.” I went down and took the baby, while Mrs. Slaney and the chief of Auxiliaries eyed each other. “What reason have you for arresting this man in my house?” Mrs. Slaney demanded. “A perfectly innocent man.” “Enough, madam.” Like Pharaoh, the man had hardened his heart. “Are you the owner of this house?” “I am.” “Then perhaps you can explain why you let this flat to a rebel.” “I let the rooms to Mrs. Fitzgerald,” Mrs. Slaney corrected. “You didn’t know who she was, I suppose? Come, Mrs. Slaney, did you know who Fitzgerald was or not?” “I let the rooms to his wife. He only has his meals.” “You are in a very serious position, Mrs. Slaney. Do you know the penalty for harbouring rebels?”