“There’s a car,” she said slowly. “It looks like a Government car. There are five or six men.”
I looked out. “I know that front man,” I cried. “He lives near us. We met him at the Shelbourne once.” I beckoned to Himself to look.
“I know him,” she admitted. “What does he want? He would never be sent here with a message. We told him to keep away.”
The men descended from the car and came into the house.
“He’ll bring in every Sinn Feiner in Dublin at his heels,” I suggested.
“My dear, he’s not important enough, though he thinks so himself.”
In a minute there was the sound of single footsteps coming up the stairs.
“He’s alone, anyway.”
The next moment the man of the beautiful waistcoats and socks came into the room. He was subtly changed. His hair was less sleek, his clothes were not so well brushed, and the silk handkerchief, which he used to beat his brow and mouth, had got crumpled.
“Oh, my God!” he exclaimed, as he appeared. “What a lot of stairs!” He saw us, hesitated, and said to 47’s wife, “How’s our friend?”