He set the glass down empty.
"My pardon!" he muttered.
"It's true," Hagan assured him. "You were one of a dozen. I wrote you with
my own hand to the last address we had from you, somewhere out on the west
coast of America. Dilwyn's right enough. England has a Government at last.
There are men there who want to find the truth. They know what we are and
what we stand for. You can judge what I mean when I tell you that we speak
as we please here, openly, and no one ventures to disturb us. Denis,
they've begun to see the truth. Dilwyn here will tell you the same thing.
He was in Downing Street only last week."
"I was indeed--I, Michael Dilwyn, the outlaw!--and they listened to me."
"The days are coming," Hagan continued, "for which we've pawned our lands,
our relatives, and some of us our liberty. Please God there isn't one here
that won't see a free Ireland! We've hammered it into their dull Saxon
brains. It's been a long, drear night, but the dawn's breaking."
"And I am pardoned!" Sir Denis repeated wonderingly.
"Where have you been to these three years, man, that you've heard nothing?"
Michael Dilwyn asked.
"In Mexico, Cuba, Nicaragua, Uraguay. You're right. I've been out of the
world. I crept out of it deliberately.
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