“It is perfectly monstrous what those brutes did this morning to Mr. Figgis. They have raided his flat four times to-day. They wantonly destroyed his typewriter, and I hear they have damaged the backs of a number of his books. He has such a choice library. A most cultured, refined man.” “I suppose they smashed his typewriter because he used it for seditious work, and they probably pulled the backs off his books to see if he had anything hidden behind. They often get information that way,” I suggested. “Nonsense, they take a pleasure in wanton destruction.” “What’s that?” There came into the street the noise of powerful engines. In two or three seconds the sound had risen to a loudness which filled every empty space. We threw up our heads, and Mrs. Slaney flushed. I went to the window, drew the blind aside, and peered into the dark. Under the window there were blinding shafts of light from acetylene lamps, and pitch dark everywhere else. Two lorries had drawn up to the door, and men were leaping out. “They’ve come again,” Mrs. Slaney exclaimed, her hand on her heart. “They’re after Mr. Figgis.” There were two lorries, one a bomb-proof affair like a chicken coop, and the other unlike a chicken coop. Before Mrs. Slaney had stopped there came a thunderous knock on the door. I held the door open for her, and she bustled out of the room and down the stairs. For a moment her voice dominated everything in the hall, and then it was lost in the noise of many men tramping into the hall and bounding up the ancient stairs. I made a dive for my MS. “They’ll be coming in here,” I said. “It’ll be a beastly nuisance if they disarrange things. I wouldn’t be surprised if they found Figgis upstairs, only he’d be a fool to come.” I had got the MS. in a bundle when the door was thrown open, and men covered with guns poured in. This was only a tributary of the main river, which continued to flow into the upper reaches of the house. “What’s your name?” I gave my name. “This lady is my wife.” “Where’s Figgis?” “Haven’t seen him for months.” “He was here last night.” “Was he?” “Are you a friend of Michael Collins?” “Haven’t met him yet.” Suddenly the tributary left off questioning and joined the main stream, in which, through the open door, I caught sight of several acquaintances who had visited the house on other occasions. We finished tidying the valuable things, so that if the rooms were searched we could show what was there. Then a terrible man in khaki, the man in khaki who was always in charge of the job, climbed the stairs. He looked redder, fiercer, and more morose than ever. He stalked in and looked us up and down. “What’s your name?” I gave my name. “This is my wife.” “Are you Irish?” “No.” “What are you doing in Ireland?” “We came over on business.” “What business?” “I had a scheme of child adoption I hoped to get going,” said my wife. “Where is it?” he demanded, as if we would pull it out of our pockets.