Mrs. O’Grady rose from the ashes in the fender one morning, and balancing herself so that she threw her minimum weight on her bad leg, said: “They do be saying that poor Mike Collins is dead.” “Michael Collins!” “Himself. I was after hearing it from my priest, who knows the priest who attended him.” She sniffed. “But, if he is dead, why should they hide it?” “And why should they tell? Mike’s given the Government a long run for him sure enough, and faith they’re running still. But he’s dead and buried for all that under another name.” She sniffed and lowered her voice. “People do be saying as how all those officers were shot for him, and there’ll be worse to come.” “I don’t believe he’s dead. It would surely slip out.” “Nothing slips out in Ireland if it’s not wanted to. If it’s never to come out that Mike’s dead it never will. And why should the Irish people be after giving the Government the satisfaction of knowing they killed him? But it’s a wonderful little island, Ireland is! You never saw the like.” “No, I never really did,” I said with all earnestness. “And you never will.” I watched the door close behind her. Of course, Michael Collins was not dead. Then what did Sinn Fein mean by throwing dust in the eyes of the public through the mouths of the priests? The door opened and Mrs. O’Grady returned with a duster. “There’s another thing,” she began. “We don’t know all that is going on, nor half. Things will be worse before they’re better. God help us, they’re bad enough now. And the mistress is mad, too, she wants the house noticed. Sure, she’ll get all the notice she wants, and more.” She became gloomy. “What do you mean?” “What I can’t say. And there’s men always after watching this house. There’s Black-and-Tans in civies in the road this very minute.” “How do you know they’re Black-and-Tans?” “Polly Pluck knows them all. She lives just behind Beggars Bush Barracks. There are spies everywhere, and you never know who you’re talking to.” “That’s quite true. You be very careful, Mrs. O’Grady.” “Me? The Irish are born careful. They need to be. The best known saying round these parts is never trust the heels of a horse, the horns of a bull, or the smile of an Englishman. And it’s true.” She came near, flourishing her duster and peering at me. “It’s been on me mind to tell you, for I sez to Polly Pluck, the lady what has the drawing-room flat has more brains than the lot of us put together, and it’s she will know what to do.” “Well,” I said, “go on, Mrs. O’Grady.” She shuffled. “Bedad, I may keep me thoughts to meself, as O’Grady was after saying only last night. The fewest knows, the least harm, sez he, and it’s himself is mostly always right.” “Something Mrs. Slaney has been doing, I suppose?” She tiptoed to the door, looked out, shut it carefully and then came back to me, looking as mysterious as an ostrich which is about to bury its head in the sand.