“I thought you were at the other end of the world.”
He answered, “I’m here.”
How I met 47; how it came about that he revealed his secret to me; how it was that we became friends, has nothing to do with this story. Sometimes I saw a lot of him; sometimes he passed out of my life for a year.
Before I had known 47 six months I had learned this, that a secret service agent, if he is to be more than a common spy, what the French term a mouchard, a fellow who gleans his news among servant girls and the like, must have something of a statesman’s vision to carry him on his way. He must have that sense of the future which lifts him beyond the individual and the matter of the moment to think in nations and down centuries. Thus is lessened the pang he feels as he bruises the individual, as the vivisectionist tortures the beast that beasts and men shall be freed of pain.
“Come to dinner to-night,” I said. “We are always talking of you.”
“I’m crossing to Ireland to-night.”
“Ireland? Are you working there?”
He nodded. “I’m going to make a beginning. All the fellows who are resting have been called up. Things are going from bad to worse.”
“Are they worse than the papers make out?”
“They are bad enough. I’ve not seen for myself yet; but the Irish Republican Army has grown into a moderately disciplined and fairly numerous fighting affair, and seems to be getting bolder. Thousands of the young men belong to it. They don’t wear uniform, and those who aren’t known to the military and police, and so aren’t on the run, live as ordinary citizens until they are called on for some stunt. They’re a secret organisation, and we ought to be the people for them.”