“I know nothing,” said Bertram. “Don’t talk to me, father, as if I were an accomplice of Dennis O’Brien.”
“You’re sympathetic with Sinn Fein,” said his father. “You sheltered this very man in your own house, I’m told.”
Bertram wondered how he knew as much as that, but didn’t ask.
“He was with me an hour or two. Susan brought him. But that’s nothing to the point. For mother’s sake you must do what’s possible, and quickly, sir!”
“There’s nothing possible,” said Mr. Pollard. “I know all about the case already. This man O’Brien has been found guilty of leading an ambush against British officers, two of whom were killed. He was captured on the spot, a week ago, tried yesterday, and condemned. I have the full report.”
So he knew before the telegram came! He had not thought it worth while to tell Bertram before or to guard his wife against the shock of the news.
Bertram begged him to put in a plea for mercy. It wouldn’t be ignored, because of his name and service to the Government. It might save O’Brien’s life, at least, and Susan’s life-long misery.
Michael Pollard’s face hardened.
“I speak to you more frankly, Bertram, than to your poor mother. For her sake I’ve already done as much as I can in honour. I’ve enquired into the proofs of guilt, into the Court Martial procedure. There’s no doubt of guilt, no flaw in the conduct of the trial. The Chief Secretary has favoured me with a private consultation. I told him, as I tell you, that I wish for no mercy on behalf of an Irish rebel who has fired on forces of the Crown, and killed men in British uniform.”
Bertram groaned, and quoted, not lightly, but in anguish, the old Shakespearean line,