“Barry.”
“Pass, friend.”
I found myself in a large apartment, in one corner of which stood the printing-press, and in another an iron table and a can of ink.
My friend of the morning, looking restless and haggard, was there, and greeted me, I thought, somewhat anxiously, as though he doubted the prudence of his invitation. He did not, I am sure, feel more anxious than I, who every moment found the act in which I was engaged more intolerable.
At last, when about a hundred men, most of them of the class of my friend, had dropped in silently, and stood talking in knots, awaiting one further arrival, I could stand it no longer.
“I told you a lie this morning,” said I in a low voice to my companion; “I am not sworn.”
He turned as white as a sheet.
“Then you are here to betray us?”
“No,” said I. “Let me go, and no one shall hear a word of this.”
“You cannot go,” said he excitedly, “it would be death to me if it were known, and to you too. Stay where you are now.”