Hyacinth experienced a thrill of agreeable excitement. He felt that he was engaged in a real conspiracy.
‘Yes. One never can be quite sure of anyone. Of course, they can every one of them give information against me. You can yourself, if you like. But no one can betray anyone else, and as long as the men are safe, it doesn’t matter what happens to me.’
It was one of Miss Goold’s weaknesses that she imagined herself to be an object of hatred and dread to the Government, and nothing irritated her more than a suspicion that she was not being taken seriously.
The first glimpse that Hyacinth got of the character of the men among whom he was to serve came to him through Tim Halloran. Tim was still sore from the scolding he had been given for his conduct at the Rotunda meeting, and missed no opportunity of scoffing--not, of course, publicly, but among his friends--at Miss Goold and her volunteers. Hyacinth avoided him as much as possible, but one evening he walked up against him on the narrow footway at the corner of George’s Street. Halloran was delighted, and seized him by the arm.
‘You’re the very man I wanted to see,’ he said. ‘Have you heard about Doherty?’
Hyacinth knew no one called Doherty. He said so, and tried to escape, but Halloran held him fast.
‘Not know Doherty! How’s that? I thought you were in all dear Finola’s secrets. Faith! I heard you were going out to fight for the Boers yourself. I didn’t believe it, of course. You wouldn’t be such a fool. But I thought you’d know that Doherty is one of the ten precious recruits, or, rather, _was_ one of them.’ He laughed loudly. ‘He’ll fight on the other side now, if he fights at all.’
‘What do you mean?’ asked Hyacinth uneasily.
He was not at all sure what view the authorities in Dublin Castle might take of recruiting for the Boer service, and Miss Goold’s hints about informers recurred to his mind alarmingly. Perhaps this Doherty was an informer.
‘Well,’ said Halloran, ‘I was in one of the police-courts this morning doing my work for the _Evening Star_. You know I report the police news for that rag, don’t you? Well, I do. My column is called “The Doom of the Disorderly.” Rather a good title that for a column of the kind! There didn’t appear to be anything particular on, just a few ordinary drunks, until this fellow Doherty was brought in. I thought I recognised him, and when I heard his name I was certain of my man. He hadn’t done anything very bad--assaulted a tram-conductor, or some such trifle--and would have got off with a fine. However, a military man turned up and claimed him as a deserter. His real name, it appears, is Johnston. He deserted six weeks ago from the Dublin Fusiliers.’