“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?”