She was led back into the road. The man who had got her blew a whistle.
Two other men joined him.

"Show a light," he said; "and let's see who the fellow is."

The shade was slipped aside from a lantern: the light fell full on the
prisoner's face. Amazement petrified the two attendant policemen. The
pious Catholic Sergeant burst into speech: "Holy Mary! it's a woman!"

Did the secret societies of Ireland enrol women? Was this a modern
Judith, expressing herself by anonymous letters, and bent on
assassinating a financial Holofernes who kept a bank? What account had
she to give of herself? How came she to be alone in a desolate field on
a rainy night? Instead of answering these questions, the inscrutable
stranger preferred a bold and brief request. "Take me to Sir
Giles"--was all she said to the police.

The Sergeant had the handcuffs ready. After looking at the prisoner's
delicate wrists by the lantern-light, he put his fetters back in his
pocket. "A lady--and no doubt about it," he said to one of his
assistants.

The two men waited, with a mischievous interest in seeing what he would
do next. The list of their pious officer's virtues included a
constitutional partiality for women, which exhibited the merciful side
of justice when a criminal wore a petticoat. "We will take you to Sir
Giles, Miss," he said--and offered his arm, instead of offering his
handcuffs. Iris understood him, and took his arm.