Part 28 (2/2)

”I don't know,” said Moyne. ”He may hold her responsible to some extent. And she is, you know. That's the worst of it, she is. We all are.”

”Not at all,” I said.

”Oh, but we are,” said Moyne. ”I feel that. I wish to goodness we'd never--”

”What I mean is that the Prime Minister won't hold her responsible.

After all, Moyne, he's a politician himself. He'll understand.”

”But we said--we kept on saying--Babberly and all of us--”

Moyne was becoming morbid.

”Don't be a fool,” I said. ”Of course we said things. Everybody does.

But we never intended to do them. Any one accustomed to politics will understand that. I expect the Prime Minister will be particularly civil to Lady Moyne. He'll see the hole she's in.”

CHAPTER XXI

I went down to the club next morning at about half-past ten o'clock, hoping to see Conroy. He, so I thought, might be able to tell me what was likely to happen during the day. Moyne could tell me nothing. I left him in the hotel, desperately determined to take the chair at any meeting that might be held; but very doubtful about how he was to do it.

The streets were much less obviously martial than they had been the night before. There were no soldiers to be seen. There were only a very few volunteers, and they did not seem to be doing anything particular. The police--there were not even many of them--looked quite peaceable, as if they had no more terrific duties to perform than the regulation of traffic and the arrest of errant drunkards. I began to think that I had accidentally told Moyne the truth the night before.

All our warriors seemed to be in bed, exhausted by their marching and counter-marching. I did not even see McConkey with his machine gun.

This disappointed me. I thought McConkey was a man of more grit. One night's work ought not to have tired him out.

c.l.i.thering was in the club. He, at all events, was still active. Very likely he was caught the night before by some patrolling party and forced to go to bed. Unless he happened to be carrying some sort of certificate of his religious faith in his pocket, Crossan would almost certainly have put him to bed. The moment he saw me he came fussing up to me.

”I'm very glad to be able to tell you,” he said, ”that the troops are to be kept in barracks to-day unless they are urgently required. I'm sure you'll agree with me that's a good plan.”

”It depends,” I said, ”on the point of view you take. It won't be at all a good plan for the police if there's any fighting.”

”I telegraphed to the Prime Minister last night,” said c.l.i.thering; ”I sent a long, detailed message--”

”I heard about that,” I said, ”from one of the war correspondents, a man called Bland. You rather blocked the wires, and he couldn't get his messages through.”

”It was of the utmost possible importance,” said c.l.i.thering, ”that the Prime Minister should thoroughly understand the situation. Our original idea was that the appearance of large bodies of troops in the streets would overawe--”

”They weren't overawing any one,” I said.

”So I saw. So I saw yesterday afternoon. I telegraphed at once. I gave it as my opinion that the troops, so far from overawing, were exasperating the populace. I suggested--I'm sure you'll agree with me that the suggestion was wise--in fact I urged very strongly that the troops should be kept out of sight to-day--under arms and ready for emergencies--but out of sight. I am in great hopes that the people will settle down quietly. Now, what do you think, Lord Kilmore?”

”They'll be quite quiet,” I said, ”if you let them hold their meeting.”

”Oh, but that's impossible,” said c.l.i.thering. ”I quite agree with the Prime Minister there. Any sign of weakness on the part of the Government at the present crisis would be fatal, absolutely fatal. The Belfast people must understand that they cannot be allowed to defy the law.”

”Then you'd better trot out your soldiers again, all you've got.”

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