For nearly a week Conroy remained shut up in his study. Bob was kept busy. He spent a good deal of time in writing plausible explanations of Conroy’s failure to keep his social engagements. He ransacked the shelves of booksellers for works dealing with contemporary Irish politics. He harried the managers of press-cutting companies for newspaper reports of speeches on Home Rule. These were things for which there was little or no demand, and the press-cutting people resented being asked for them. He even interviewed political leaders. These gentlemen received him coldly at first, suspecting from his appearance that he wanted to get a chance of earning £400 a year as a member of Parliament, and hoped to persuade them to find him a constituency. When they discovered that he was the private secretary of a famous millionaire their manner changed and they explained the policies of their various parties in such ways as seemed likely to draw large cheques from Conroy.
Bob reported what they said, summarized the letters of the disappointed hostesses, and piled Conroy’s table with books, pamphlets, and newspaper cuttings. The whole business bored and worried him. The idea that Conroy actually contemplated organizing a rebellion in Ireland never crossed his mind. He hoped that the political enthusiasm of his patron would die away as quickly as it had sprung up. It was therefore a surprise to him when, after a few weeks’ hard reading, Conroy announced his decision.
“I’m going into this business,” he said.
“Politics?” said Bob.
“Politics be damned! What I’m out for is a revolution.”
“You can’t do it,” said Bob. “I told you at the start that those fellows won’t fight. They haven’t it in them to stand up and be shot at.”
“I’m thinking of the other fellows,” said Conroy.
“What other fellows?” he asked.
“Belfast,” said Conroy.
Bob whistled.