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“Come to dinner to-night,” I said. “We are always talking of you.”

“I’m crossing to Ireland to-night.”

“Ireland? Are you working there?”

He nodded. “I’m going to make a beginning. All the fellows who are resting have been called up. Things are going from bad to worse.”

“Are they worse than the papers make out?”

“They are bad enough. I’ve not seen for myself yet; but the Irish Republican Army has grown into a moderately disciplined and fairly numerous fighting affair, and seems to be getting bolder. Thousands of the young men belong to it. They don’t wear uniform, and those who aren’t known to the military and police, and so aren’t on the run, live as ordinary citizens until they are called on for some stunt. They’re a secret organisation, and we ought to be the people for them.”

“Are you glad to be off?” I said.

“Damn glad,” he answered. “I’ll be able to see for myself. One man tells you the country is in the clutches of a murder gang, and the next that some nobler spasm convulses it. All the same I hear work in Ireland is trickier than Continental stunts. On the Continent you have the majority of the nation indifferent to you, and only the official part to circumvent; but in Ireland they say half the nation is waiting to give a man away.”