“Is that the Judge Advocate? Oh, Colonel Lavington speaking. About that man, Dennis O’Brien, in Mountjoy Prison. Yes, to be hanged to-morrow morning. Yes. I have his brother-in-law here, Major Bertram Pollard, son of Michael Pollard, M.P. His brother-in-law. Yes. You knew? Telegrams from London? Oh, yes, special report! Well, then, you don’t think—No. Not a chance? Must take place? Reprieve impossible? I understand, sir. Yes. Yes. Sorry to have troubled you. Oh, of course. At six o’clock to-morrow? Thanks. Quite so. Yes, Major Pollard’s with me now. Yes. I’ll explain. Your regrets? Yes. Thanks again, sir. All right. Good-bye.”
“Not a chance?” asked Bertram.
The Judge Advocate had explained fully. Bertram could hear the crackle of his voice on the telephone. The Colonel’s words had been said between long bouts of speech from the Judge Advocate—that hoarse crackling in the receiver of the instrument.
“No. You understood by my answers? The Judge Advocate has been in communication with the Chief Secretary about the case. It has been thoroughly considered. Their decision is definite. Justice must take its course, and so on. Well! . . . I’m extremely sorry for your sake, and for your sister’s.”
He was wonderfully courteous, charmingly sympathetic, not at all a Black and Tan in his political opinions, but it would make no difference to Dennis O’Brien.
The execution was at six o’clock? Yes, at Mountjoy Prison. There would be strong guards outside. Sure to be a public demonstration.
Bertram thanked Colonel Lavington, gave him the latest news about the English Strike, shook hands, and went. His coming to Ireland had been in vain. He might as well have remained in London, except for the knowledge that he had done his best, for Susan’s sake.
He had no idea where his sister was living in the city, and perhaps it was better so. What could he say to her? How could he give her any comfort?
XXXIII
That night he slept a little in his chair in a bedroom of the Shelbourne Hotel. At four o’clock in the morning he awakened, cramped and chilled. It was the morning of execution. Something called to him to go out to Mountjoy Prison, though overnight he had no such intention. “The scenes that go on round the prison are hair-raising,” said the Colonel. What kind of scenes? He would go and see for himself. It would help him to understand the spirit of the Irish people, the spirit of half his own blood.