Bertram laughed, but mirthlessly.
“So O’Brien is ‘wanted,’ is he? And you’ve married him, Susan? Any more announcements?”
“That’s all for the present,” said Susan. She watched her brother anxiously, saw his face harden a little, and then went to him and clasped his arm with both hands.
“Bertram! You and I were always pals. You’ve helped me out of many a scrape, and never said a word. This affair is my worst scrape, and Dennis’s. It’s a question of life and death. Play up to the old tradition!”
“I want to know more,” said Bertram. He spoke sharply, and looked over at O’Brien, who was silent, with a nervous smile about his lips. “What game have you been up to in England? That arson business?” He remembered that several timber yards had been set on fire at the London docks, with Sinn Fein warnings of further damage.
Dennis O’Brien shifted his felt hat round, and stared at the brim.
“I’m not answering questions,” he said.
“Perhaps it’s worse than arson,” said Bertram. “Were you in Dublin last Monday?”
There had been an attack outside the Castle. Two British officers in a motor car, and three Sinn Feiners lying in ambush had been killed. Others had escaped.
Dennis O’Brien became more pale, and Susan drew in her breath sharply.