I was mounting the stairs with the infant Fergus, to tuck him up on our sofa, when I ran into the musical man who lived over our heads. “Do you think they’ll search the house?” he said. “If Mrs. Slaney annoys them enough they will.” “I’ve a paper here--they don’t search women,” he suggested. The infant Fergus whimpered at that moment, and I rolled him up on our sofa. The man of music had followed me. He held a newspaper cutting in his hand. “I got this out of the paper this morning. They mightn’t like it.” I read it. “There’s nothing in it.” “You wouldn’t keep it?” “Oh, I’ll keep it; but burn it if you like and get another paper to-morrow.” As I spoke I put it in my pocket. He was very young. Mrs. Slaney bustled into the room, her eyes flickering. “The unfortunate man! They’ll murder him before he reaches the Castle. She’s taken it wonderfully; but what else would you expect from an Irish woman? Did you hear that man talking to me? The brutality of him. But he couldn’t frighten me. Can you let me have a scarf? It’s such a cold night, and I promised Mrs. Fitzgerald to let her husband have mine; but it’s a long way upstairs.” I got Himself’s own scarf, and followed after her as she bustled downstairs with it. Preparations for departure were going forward. I heard Mrs. O’Grady sniffing in the dark under the stairs. “Ready?” said the man in charge. I could just hear Mr. Fitzgerald’s answer. Mrs. Fitzgerald tucked his neck with eager fingers. She followed him to the step. “Good-bye.” “Good-bye.” The clutches grated as the lorries turned. The armoured car rolled after them. In a minute it was all dark again outside. I went to the basement to find what Mrs. O’Grady was doing. She was in tears on a chair near the fire. “I’ll never get over this night, at all, at all. And him with his lovely hair and his beautiful smile; him that will be dead before morning. It’s lucky you are. It’s you have your scarf round the neck of a fine young Irishman, and O’Grady’s is there, too, for I gave it to him last thing. Sure, but I do be glad he’s finished his dinner, it’s the last dinner he’ll take maybe. And there’s his tea, not half drunk in his cup, just as he left it. I hadn’t it in me heart to throw it away. It’s black trouble has been brought on us all, and it’s blacker will come.” She rose from her chair and produced a box of matches from some mysterious pocket, and lighted the gas stove for me. “God help him!” she exclaimed. “There’s his tea.” CHAPTER XVIII WINTER WEARS OUT Our road came in for a spell of peace after the departure of the Minister of Propaganda. From time to time other houses up and down the way had been looked up by the Crown Forces; but for a while the neighbourhood seemed to pass out of the public eye, and the lorries rolled down other streets.