We went back.
When we were indoors again shooting began all through the city. Patrols were probably firing more blank cartridge to clear the streets. Down the roads tramped soldiers in tin hats, and armoured cars rolled by. We put out the light and leaned from the window watching. Now and then some passing officer, fearful of a bomb, would shout, “Keep your heads in.”
In the middle of it all Mrs. Slaney hustled into the room, giving us no time to answer her knock.
“I have just been talking to a leading Sinn Feiner,” she announced, “and those men who were shot this morning were all spies. I told you that our boys must have had something definite against them.”
“I don’t think it makes it a bit better,” I declared. “A life is a life, and it’s frightful to sneak into a man’s bedroom while he’s asleep, and kill him in front of his wife.”
“It’s disgusting,” exclaimed Mrs. Slaney, “to think that English officers and gentlemen will descend to such things. Monstrous! Before the war such a thing was never heard of.”
“I think it a pity the Sinn Feiners murdered them.” I stuck to my guns stoutly.
Mrs. Slaney borrowed the paper and departed.
“Her Sinn Feiners are all spies too,” I said, as soon as she had gone. “What’s she talking about?”
Himself nodded. “In any case I take off my hat to spies, Sinn Feiners or British. They have to be brave men. I should think a spy wants all the qualities of a soldier, and many more besides.”