“He’s all right,” she answered coldly.
“Good! Went up to the Castle on Sunday. Saw them there safe—by Gad! so safe. Lots of fellows, well fed fellows, happy, cheery fellows. They had a long list of names, all the brotherhood, and they were ticking off the chaps who were killed. ‘How’s 47?’ I asked. ‘All right,’ said one chap, after a glance at the list; ‘at least, we’ve had no word through about him.’ ‘My God!’ I said, ‘I must get along and see for myself.’”
“Who are your five friends?”
“An armed guard. You couldn’t expect me to go about without an armed guard. Every Shinner in Dublin is at my heels.”
“My dear fellow, didn’t it strike you that by bringing an armed guard clattering into the hall you would be likely to turn the Sinn Fein attention to us?”
Our friend laid a soothing hand on 47’s wife.
“Have you been out much since the affair?” she asked abruptly.
“Every day and every night. No peace. Nothing like that about me. But it doesn’t matter, for I can’t sleep. My God! and I was told this was money for nothing! Money for nothing, and the life filled a man full of joy!”
“You’ve got nerves.”
“Nerves! By Gad, nerves! Hear her.” He pivoted round towards us, showed he had recognised us, and smiling, said, “How are you?” He came across and laid a hand on my shoulder. He was the type of man who touches women. Then he jerked round again to 47’s wife.