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VII.

A STUDY IN GREEN.

BY SALTIRE.

A PLAGUE ON BOTH YOUR HOUSES."

He was a quiet inoffensive individual, and his name was Harry Fitzwarren. Fitzwarren has a warlike sound, and speaks of times when Norman warriors crossed the treacherous sea in clumsy ships, planted themselves firmly on the barbarous shore, and carved out a heritage from among the lands of the ancient Hibernians.

But the race had not been improved by their sojourn in the damp and enervating at mosphere of the conquered Pale. And Harry came near to being a degenerate. There was a letter written about him once, anonymously, that probably sums him up pretty accurately. For long months it was overlooked, and discovered only after the events related in this tale. "He does not know one end of a revolver from another," the writer said, "and has been connected with what one might call the academic, not the military side of this new political movement."

His connection with the academic side of the movement, however, had led him on more than one occasion to air his opinions in public-houses and other places of resort; and maybe more active and energetic exponents of the new Republicanism had conceived

the idea of putting his enthusiasm to profit. Even if he were not exactly framed for the part of a combatant, they could make him very useful as a spy or a tale-bearer, and even better still, as a scapegoat for some one more eminent in the rolls of the party who might happen to get into trouble with authority.

What mattered it to them, once he had served his purpose, that he should adorn a cage and gaze on vacancy, or that perhaps some worse thing should befall him! He fell a victim to their sly insinuating wiles, boasted of his new-found calling, looked forward to the time when he should play a large part in the annals of yet one more mushroom State, and grind the faces of its former rulers.

Harry enjoyed his role for six months in almost complete quiet. He was nominally a soldier in the Republican Army, and drilled surreptitiously with his comrades on smooth spaces in the open valleys between the hills. After this he swaggered about the streets of the little town, and imagined that he was making a huge impression upon the ardent supporters of Sinn Fein among the fairer

At that time the "military had not turned their attention to the neighbourhood of Fitzwarren's home. The commandant in charge at Owl had seen as many wars as he thought enough for a lifetime, and desired peace rather than a sword. But a time came when another commandant reigned in his stead, among whose virtues persistency was not the least. His name was De Barillon, or Barillon for short. The rank and file pronounced it in a number of strange ways, all intelligible, but none correct. Strange irony of fate that the ancestors of Fitzwarren, Fitzgibbon, Fitzgerald, and hosts of others to whose prejudice he came into their midst, should have hailed, as Barillon's did, from France.

and

Whatever may have been the services which Fitzwarren rendered to the Sinn Fein cause, it is certain that his activities on their behalf did not escape the notice of the more eager members of the Loyalist party among the population. Anonymous letterwriting was at that time an art much cultivated throughout the Emerald Isle ; among the anonymous letters received on a day by one of the great ones who regulated the doings of the detachment commander at Owl Fort was a fairly lengthy description of Harry Fitzwarren and his friends, their aims and occupations. What it said was not in his favour, though the writer purported to have been quite

uninspired by malice or antagonism towards the subject of the communication, and to have acted solely in accordance with a desire "to aid the law and to stop the misery that the Sinn Fein gang are bringing on the people."

If the anonymous letter was not very clear in its details, the order which it brought forth was fearfully and wonderfully obscure : "Search and interview Nora Flannery five six Wolfe Tone Street who gave information. Arrest owner of house AAA."

Nora Flannery had never been heard of. It was not certain whether five six Wolfe Tone Street meant fifty-six, or houses five and six. It was against regulations to search women. There was no record of any one having given information against the owner of either houses five and six or house fifty-six Wolfe Tone Street. At last, in an antiquated file, compiled by the commandant who had laboured for peace, and not very often consulted by his more go-ahead successors, mention was found of a certain Harry Fitzwarren, who had been imprisoned on suspicion about six months before, and subsequently released by the benevolent Government of the mother country. He was described as a harmless idiot," and this crushing summary of his character was the sole vengeance meted out to him by the leniency of the powers that be.

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Barillon was not long, how

way, and

ever, in solving the problem to the police barracks on their his satisfaction. It was desee whether the cided that Nora Flannery lived senior members of that instituat 56 Wolfe Tone Street, and tion could throw any light on being herself a Loyalist, had the subject. given information against the owner, who was not. 56 Wolfe Tone Street could, of course, be found, and the gods being auspicious, the owner and Miss Nora Flannery, provided always that some mistake had not been made, either at the place of origin in the compiling, or in transmission through the telephone, or in translation of the cipher in which the message was shrouded.

The proper interpretation of the message must therefore be, "Search the house. Interview Nora Flannery. Arrest the owner." Supposing that they found the right house, how were they to secure a separate interview with Miss Flannery without arousing the suspicions of the owner, in which case it was probable that the wellaffected lady, who was the author of the information, would ultimately be shot, or at least shorn of her hair by the

seditious inmates.

If the right house could be discovered, some means must be found to see Nora Flannery first, to hear what she had to say about the owner and his doings, next to search and, if necessary, arrest the owner.

Then, of course, there were the police; they might know the number of the house and who lived there, so it was decided that when the searchparty set out they should pass

It was a cruel night. A biting wind blew from the east; snow had fallen during the day, and the frost-bound roads were like ice to walk on. It was probable, therefore, that few people would be about in the streets. The search-party clattered and murmured as they fell in, and then an unearthly silence reigned in the stonepaved barrack square of the fortress, and only the muffled voices of the commanders were heard conferring together in the deepest of undertones. They passed out of the great gate and down the precipitous hill that led to the main street of the town, in two long files on each side of the road. needed only ten minutes to reach the scene of the intended search; but the officer in command, who happened to be our old friend Wynterfold, as he was not certain of the identity of the house, decided that it would be as well to consult the police authorities before embarking definitely on his enterprise. This necessi tated waking up two very sleepy officials, from whom not a word of useful information could be extracted, before he found the right one, who seemed to be the only man there able to tell him anything about the inhabitants of No. 56 Wolfe

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eloquent. The owner of that house was a Loyalist. He was sixty-three years old. He had three sons, all of whom had served in the Army. One, who had been a sergeant in the Munsters, was killed early in the war; of the two others who still lived, one was in the Inniskilling Dragoons, and the other was employed by a commercial house in Liverpool. And a great many other particulars. Wynterfold listened to this long narration rather impatiently; but he knew that an Irishman must have his say, and so desisted from interrupting.

Patience was rewarded at last, and when his informant had finished with the O'Donoughues that was the name of the Loyalists-he went on to the Fitzwarrens. They were undoubtedly the occupiers of No. 56, though as to whether they were the owners he was unable to state anything definite. They were, he believed, silly quarrelsome people, though hardly, it would seem, worth his serious attention; for, apart from the evil effects of their gossiping, nothing of a serious nature was to be expected from such fatuous idiots.

Half dissatisfied that he had not trusted to his own initiative and gone straight to the house, Wynterfold led his men back in the original direction, regretting that he had gone so far out of his way to gain so small an object. The door of No. 56 stood straight in front of them as they came down

the lane that led from the police barracks.

There was a dark passage at the side, however, and the double doors, which were only bolted on the inside and not locked with a padlock, easily yielded to pressure without making much noise.

What others might attempt with indifference, they must succeed in doing without creating a stir, silent in their movements, wary of their footfalls, coming upon their unsuspecting prey with artifice so carefully designed as to eliminate all possibility of their victim's escaping unseen. Knowing from experience that the noise of their steps as they marched down the street had often before spread the alarm of their coming and brought warning to the people whom they sought, the detachment commander had arranged that on this particular night the members of the search-party should wear shoes with soles of indiarubber: not that such a measure excluded every chance of their making some tumult that would upset their plans, for a soldier in fighting order can scarcely be considered suitably equipped for the work of a policeman.

However, they got down the passage and into what might have been called euphemistically a garden, though it was in reality a rambling collection of little plots with shrubs, winding paths, barns, pig-sties, lumber-sheds, cart-houses-a nightmare of confusion, and all

encircled by an old mouldy than a support to the Sinn

wall that was as high as twenty feet in some places and as low as seven in others, beyond which there were other collections of buildings and enclosures with palings and barricades in every direction. Think what a favourable background this conglomeration would provide for a drama in twentieth-century Ireland.

While the soldiers were engaged in effecting an entrance into the back premises of No. 56, a very animated family conclave was in progress inside the house. The same morning that the order for the search had reached the detachment commander at the fort, the Fitzwarren family had been disturbed by the information that a certain leader of rebellion, formerly a habitué of their home, was dissatisfied by the efforts of Harry Fitzwarren on behalf of the cause, and meditated bringing him before a court of justice. On a certain evening rather less than a week before, Harry had been out for one of his usual jaunts, and during the carouse in which he had taken part had employed even less than his usual discretion. To put it bluntly, he had allowed himself to be "pumped" by a member of the forces of the Crown, and as the agents of Sinn Fein were everywhere in the neighbourhood, it was not long before the facts came to the ears of their chief representative. Harry Fitzwarren, he decided, had become rather a danger

Fein cause, and summary measures must be taken that their designs should not again be jeopardised by being placed in such unsafe keeping. Though it was unlikely that their plans to arrest the offender had been matured as early as that evening, Harry and his two sisters were engaged in discussing the probability of a raid by the representatives of the green army with a seriousness betokening their conviction that it would take place in the near future.

"Ye had a right to stand up to Pat O'Reilly and face him like a man, and not be slinkin' away into corners the way ye do; it's the quiet lads like yerself that they do make their tools, and when they're done with them fire them out on the rubbitch heap," Geraldine, the elder sister, was saying.

"Sure I mightn't mind Pat O'Reilly at all," replied Harry, "and he only a brave patriot like the rest of us. It's not him that'd be coming to take me, but the brutal soldiery, the curse o' hell on the foreign hirelings. He and I are lookin' for the wan thing-a free Ireland. We'll get on fine together yet, never you fear."

"Well, sure, if that's your opinyon, why wouldn't you take your gun in your hand and go out with the bhoys when they were waitin' to take the bulls below at Gipsy's well."

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