“You’d better take them at once,” he said. “It’s impossible to know what’ll happen here to-night.”
“But you?” I said.
“Oh, I shall stay.”
“Don’t be a fool, Moyne,” I said. “You’re the one of all others who ought not to stay. Don’t you see that whatever way things go you’re in for it? The mob thinks you’re a traitor. I wouldn’t trust those fellows we’ve just left not to kill you. And when the soldiers have shot them down and the subsequent investigation begins, the Government is bound to fix on you as a ringleader. There’ll be panic to-morrow and savage vindictiveness the next day. McNeice and Malcolmson will frighten the Government and the Government will have you hanged or beheaded afterwards for causing the trouble. The English people will clamour for a victim, and you’re exactly the sort of victim they’ll like. Your one chance is to get out of this. Go to Castle Affey to-night, and telegraph to The Times to-morrow to say that you dissociate yourself—”
Moyne stopped me.
“Look here, Kilmore,” he said. “I’ve heard all you have to say, and I agree with it, more or less. I don’t suppose I’ll be either murdered by the mob or shot by the military, but—”
“You will,” I said, “if you stay here.”
“Even if I am,” he said, “I’ll have to stay.”
“In the name of goodness, why?”
“You know the way we’ve been talking for the last two years—our side, I mean.”