excitement.

"Come here, Digby," he said. "Come here and read this."

He caught up the paper which the machine had disgorged and allowed it to
hang across his hands in graceful festoons. There seemed to me to be a
great deal of it.

"I wish you'd tell me about it," I said. "I hate reading those things.
The print is so queer."

I knew that Malcolmson would tell me about it whether I read it for
myself or not. There was no use getting a double dose of the news
whatever it was.

"The damned Government's done for at last," said Malcolmson
triumphantly, "and Home Rule's as dead as a door nail."

"Good," I said. "Now we shall all be able to settle down. How did it
happen? Earthquake in Dublin? But that would hardly do it. Cabinet
Ministers committed suicide unanimously?"

"The Army," said Malcolmson, "has refused to fire on us. I knew they
would and they have."

"Were they asked to?" I said.

"Asked to!" said Malcolmson. "They were told to, ordered to. We've had
our private information of what was going on. We've known all about
it for a week or more. Belfast was to be bombarded by the Fleet. Two
brigades of infantry were to cross the Boyne and march on Portadown.
The cavalry, supported by light artillery, were to take Enniskillen by
surprise. We were to be mowed down, mowed down and sabred before we had
time to mobilise. The most infamous plot in modern times. A second
St. Bartholomew's massacre. But thank God the Army is loyal. I cross
to-night to take my place with my men."

An ill-tempered, captious man might have suggested that Malcolmson
ought to have taken his place with his men--a regiment of volunteers I
suppose--a little sooner. According to his own account, the peril had
been real a week before, but was over before he told me about it. The
Government which had planned the massacre was dead and damned. The Army
had refused to carry out the infamous plot. It seemed a mere piece of
bravado, under the circumstances, to take up arms. But I knew Malcolmson
better than to suppose that he wanted to swagger when swaggering was
safe. His mind might be in a muddled state. Judging by the way he talked
to me, it was very muddled indeed. But his heart was sound, and no risk
would have daunted him.

"Let's have a glass of sherry and a biscuit," I said. "You'll want
something to steady your nerves."

But Malcolmson, for once, for the only time since I have known him, was
unwilling to sit down and talk. His train, s