Knots of still expectant people were gathered at the Mount street bridge.
Squads of long-coated military police patrolled the place. Children called
at games. The starlight dripped into the canal. At Portobello bridge we
made our crossing. Nothing happened. The constables did not even punch the
cushions of our car as they did with others to see if munitions were
concealed therein. We swooped down curving roads between white walls hung
with masses of dark laurel. We stopped dead on a road arched with trees. We
got out, clicked the car door softly shut, turned a corner, and walked some
distance in the cool night. As we walked I made I forget what request in
regard to the interview from young Mr. Boland, and with the reverent regard
and complete obedience to DeValera's wishes that is characteristic in the
young Sinn Feiners--a state of mind that does not, however, prevent calling
the president "Dev"--he said simply: "But I must do what he tells me." At
the door of a modestly comfortable home whose steps we mounted, a thick-set
man blocked my way for a moment.

"You won't," he asked, "say where you came?"

"I'm sure," I returned, "I haven't an idea where I am."

DeValera was giving rapid, almost breathless, orders in Irish to some one
as I entered his room. His thin frame towered above a dark plush-covered
table. A fire behind him surrounded him with a soft yellow aura. His white,
ascetic, young--he is thirty-seven--face was lined with determination.
Doors and windows were hung with thick, dark-red portières, and the walls
were almost as white as DeValera's face.

"Pardon us for speaking Irish," he apologized. "We forget. Now first of
all, we will go over the questions you sent me. I have written the answers.
They must appear as I have put them down. That is the condition on which