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the contents of your rucksack.”
    I unpacked slowly and carefully, laying my two books on the table in front of him.
    “And how did you come to acquire that great stain across the front of the rucksack?”
    I began to tell the story of the lurid events on the train, but I hadn’t gone far before he seemed to swell and to become as red as a turkey. Then he broke into peal after peal of laughter.
    “No more, Mr. Sherwood, no more. Yes, we know all about what happened on the train. We’ve got our eyes and ears open, you know.”
    He wiped a turkey-red face and became more serious as he stamped my passport.
    “There. And now away with you. See to it that you keep to your program. You know the rules. Report each week at any guard station. Don’t think we like all these restrictions on genuine visitors, but they’ve been forced on us by the very dubious segment of humanity that has lately been invading our shores. Stick to Dublin and the Wicklow Mountains, Mr. Sherwood, and you’ll have a very pleasant holiday.”
    As I stepped out onto the quayside I could hear his rumbling chuckle. He was of course quite right. No agent in his senses would behave in the way I had behaved. An agent’s deepest instinct is to avoid all conspicuous action. None would have squawked as I had squawked.
    Next came the short rail journey from Rosslare to Dublin. It was a clear fine morning with promise of a glorious day as I strolled the short stretch of the Liffey to O’Connell Street. Three huge Guinness trucks raced past me. In truth, these people must be heroic drinkers.
    I paused for a moment at the bridge, and then walked quickly to College Green. A porter was on duty at Trinity.
    “I believe you have a room booked for me. I’m from the other Trinity—Cambridge. Sherwood is the name.”
    He looked over a list in just the manner that porters have the world over. “Yes, sir, you’re on staircase 24, second floor, close to the library. Jim, would you be showing this gentleman the way to 24?” he called to a passing college servant.
    My room contained a wash basin and jug of water. I splashed my face liberally, then stripped and climbed into bed. My last thought, before the mists of sleep overcame me, was to wonder whether Papa Percy had used real blood.
    He’d certainly taken no risk of my failing to get into Ireland. Plainly the preposterous comedy on the train had completely deceived Mr. George Rafferty, the little Irish bird—the little Irish agent, more like! But it was depressing that Papa Percy hadn’t seen fit to tell me just what was afoot; he evidently took me to be very dumb. Perhaps he was right at that, for until my second interview with Inspector Harwood I hadn’t really understood what was going on. The crowning insult was the showing of the picture of poor Mr. Rafferty. Maybe I am dumb, let me admit it, but not quite to that degree.
    One last disturbing thought: How was it known that an Irish agent would just happen to be in my compartment? Was every train to Fishguard packed solid with them?
     

3. The House In Marrowbone Lane
     
    My first day in Dublin passed with little event. I slept until mid-afternoon, had a snack at a rather palatial “self-help” restaurant in Grafton Street, and then spent the hour or two before Hall learning the detailed geography of the college.
    I was welcomed at dinner by a lively group of students, for the most part medicals and scientists up for the Long Vacation. We went along later to the rooms of one of them, and talked away twenty to the dozen until about 1 A.M.
    Apart from this congenially familiar situation, there was a good reason for satisfaction: a product of the suspicious mind with which for good or ill I happen to be possessed. Was it possible that Parsonage had overbid his hand? Had not my passage through immigration been just a little too easy? Suppose the Irish were wise to me, as the Americans say. Would they send me home, jail me or just watch me? Obviously they’d