It had happened before. Her G-man brother had to engage in some unorthodox tactics to disentangle her from the malign influence of a young man whom she said she loved. He happened to be a leading member of a revolutionary group that sometimes called itself the Hibernian League and at other times the Hibernian Brotherhood. It took an amount of clever footwork to prevent her name going on the Castle’s intelligence files as a subversive to be watched.

Harriet and Maria caught one of the new steam trams that were gradually replacing the horse-drawn vehicles that had served the city for twenty years. It took them along Thomas Street, across Cornmarket, past the two churches named for St Audoen, the little Norman saint who was the patron of the city walls, past Christ Church Cathedral and down to the city centre.

The November afternoon was dry and mild with a watery sun slanting over the rooftops as it dropped away to the west of the city. When the tram clanked past the City Hall, Maria strained to peer into Exchange Court, where the detective office was located. As often as she had passed the building where Swallow worked, she had never seen him enter or leave it.

The vehicle circumnavigated the curtilage of Trinity College. They dismounted at the first stop on Nassau Street and made their way through the afternoon crowd along Dawson Street towards the Mansion House.

The Round Room, where it was said the acoustics were so perfect that even those in the back rows could hear a speaker whisper on the stage, was filling rapidly. A Land League steward, wearing a green sash, recognised Harriet and came forward, beckoning her and Maria to two seats by the alcove. ‘Míle buíochas, a Sheathrúin,’ she smiled at the young man. Maria thought he blushed. He smiled back. ‘Fáilte romhat, Harriet. Agus fáilte roimh do chara álainn.’

Maria grimaced as they sat. ‘The only bit I understood was “Harriet”. What did he say?’

Harriet laughed. ‘Actually, he was paying you a compliment. Sean trained at Carysfort too. He called you my “beautiful companion”’.

‘Hmm, maybe I’ll try and learn a bit of the Gaelic then, if it’ll get me that sort of comment.’

‘You should.’

‘What’s his name?’ Maria asked. ‘He seemed to know you well.’

‘Oh, don’t draw any unwarranted conclusions,’ Harriet laughed. ‘He’s Seathrún Ó Brolcháin. He was in training at Marino College while I was in Carysfort. He’s very active in nationalist activities. I admire him.’

By the time the meeting was to open, the Round Room was packed. Scores of latecomers found only standing room, while stewards argued with people trying to hold empty seats for friends. A fug of smoke was already beginning to fill the hall, rising to the high ceiling. The body heat generated from the crowd was starting to draw out smells of sweat and damp clothing.