“Ye’ll do no vi’lence to anny wan!” he cut in. “The Sinn Fein will shtand for no dirrty wurruk in America! Av you set fires an’ blow up plants, an’ kidnap ladies, an’ do murther, g’wan, ye Dootch scuts!—it’s your business, God help us!—not ours.
“All we axe of ye is machine-goons, an’ rifles, an’ ships to land them; an’ av ye don’t like it, phway th’ divil d’ye come botherin’ th’ likes of us Irish wid y’r proppygandy! Sorra the day,” he added, “I tuk up wid anny Dootchman at all at all——”
Lehr and Freund exchanged expressionless glances. The former dropped a propitiating hand on Soane’s shoulder.
“Can it,” he said good-humouredly. “We’re trying to help you Irish to what you want. You want Irish independence, don’t you? All right. We’re going to help you get it——”
A bell rang; Lehr sprang to his feet and hastened out through the iron door, drawing his black-jack from his hip pocket as he went.
He returned in a few moments, followed by a very good-looking but pallid man in rather careless evening dress, who had the dark eyes of a dreamer and the delicate features of a youthful acolyte.
He saluted the company with a peculiarly graceful gesture, which recognition even the gross creatures at the skat table returned with visible respect.
Soane, always deeply impressed by the presence of Murtagh Skeel, offered his chair and drew another one to the table.
Skeel accepted with a gently preoccupied smile, and seated himself gracefully. All that is chivalrous, romantic, 168 courteous, and brave in an Irishman seemed to be visibly embodied in this pale man.
“I have just come,” he said, “from a dinner at Sherry’s. A common hatred of England brought together the dozen odd men with whom I have been in conference. Ferez Bey was there, the military attachés of the German, Austrian, and Turkish embassies, one or two bankers, officials of certain steamship lines, and a United States senator.”