“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?”