THE wind rose a little, and the rifts in the clouds began to grow broader as Iris gained the high road.

For a while, the glimmer of the misty moonlight lit the way before her. As well as she could guess, she had passed over more than half of the distance between the town and the milestone before the sky darkened again. Objects by the wayside grew shadowy and dim. A few drops of rain began to fall. The milestone, as she knew — thanks to the discovery of it made by daylight — was on the right-hand side of the road. But the dull-grey colour of the stone was not easy to see in the dark.

A doubt troubled her whether she might not have passed the milestone. She stopped and looked at the sky.

The threatening of rain had passed away: signs showed themselves which seemed to promise another break in the clouds. She waited. Low and faint, the sinking moonlight looked its last at the dull earth. In front of her, there was nothing to be seen but the road. She looked back — and discovered the milestone.

A rough stone wall protected the land on either side of the road. Nearly behind the milestone there was a gap in this fence, partially closed by a hurdle. A half-ruined culvert, arching a ditch that had run dry, formed a bridge leading from the road to the field. Had the field been already chosen as a place of concealment by the police? Nothing was to be seen but a footpath, and the dusky line of a plantation beyond it. As she made these discoveries, the rain began to fall again; the clouds gathered once more; the moonlight vanished.

At the same moment an obstacle presented itself to her mind, which Iris had thus far failed to foresee.

Lord Harry might approach the milestone by three different ways: that is to say — by the road from the town, or by the road from the open country, or by way of the field and the culvert. How could she so place herself as to be sure of warning him, before he fell into the hands of the police? To watch the three means of approach in the obscurity of the night, and at one and the same time, was impossible.

A man in this position, guided by reason, would in all probability have wasted precious time in trying to arrive at the right decision. A woman, aided by love, conquered the difficulty that confronted her in a moment.

Iris decided on returning to the milestone, and on waiting there to be discovered and taken prisoner by the police. Supposing Lord Harry to be punctual to his appointment, he would hear voices and movements, as a necessary consequence of the arrest, in time to make his escape. Supposing him on the other hand to be late, the police would be on the way back to the town with their prisoner: he would find no one at the milestone, and would leave it again in safety.

She was on the point of turning, to get back to the road, when something on the dark surface of the field, which looked like a darker shadow, became dimly visible. In another moment it seemed to be a shadow that moved. She ran towards it. It looked like a man as she drew nearer. The man stopped.

“The password,” he said, in tones cautiously lowered.

“Fidelity,” she answered in a whisper.

It was too dark for a recognition of his features; but Iris knew him by his tall stature — knew him by the accent in which he had asked for the password. Erroneously judging of her, on his side, as a man, he drew back again. Sir Giles Mountjoy was above the middle height; the stranger in a cloak, who had whispered to him, was below it. “You are not the person I expected to meet,” he said. “Who are you?”

Her faithful heart was longing to tell him the truth. The temptation to reveal herself, and to make the sweet confession of her happiness at having saved him, would have overpowered her discretion, but for a sound that was audible on the road behind them. In the deep silence of the time and place mistake was impossible. It was the sound of footsteps.

There was just time to whisper to him: “Sir Giles has betrayed you. Save yourself.”

“Thank you, whoever you are!”

With that reply, he suddenly and swiftly disappeared. Iris remembered the culvert, and turned towards it. There was a hiding-place under the arch, if she could only get down into the dry ditch in time. She was feeling her way to the slope of it with her feet, when a heavy hand seized her by the arm; and a resolute voice said: “You are my prisoner.”

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.

She was silent — unaccountably silent as the men thought — on the way to the town. They heard her sigh: and, once, the sigh sounded more like a sob; little did they suspect what was in that silent woman’s mind at the time.

The one object which had absorbed the attention of Iris had been the saving of Lord Harry. This accomplished, the free exercise of her memory had now reminded her of Arthur Mountjoy.

It was impossible to doubt that the object of the proposed meeting at the milestone had been to take measures for the preservation of the young man’s life. A coward is always more or less cruel. The proceedings (equally treacherous and merciless) by which Sir Giles had provided for his own safety, had delayed — perhaps actually prevented — the execution of Lord Harry’s humane design. It was possible, horribly possible, that a prompt employment of time might have been necessary to the rescue of Arthur from impending death by murder. In the agitation that overpowered her, Iris actually hurried the police on their return to the town.

Sir Giles had arranged to wait for news in his private room at the office — and there he was, with Dennis Howmore in attendance to receive visitors.

The Sergeant went into the banker’s room alone, to make his report. He left the door ajar; Iris could hear what passed.

“Have you got your prisoner?” Sir Giles began.

“Yes, your honour.”

“Is the wretch securely handcuffed?”

“I beg your pardon, sir, it isn’t a man.”

“Nonsense, Sergeant; it can’t be a boy.”

The Sergeant confessed that it was not a boy. “It’s a woman,” he said.

“What!!!”

“A woman,” the patient officer repeated —“and a young one. She asked for You.”

“Bring her in.”

Iris was not the sort of person who waits to be brought in. She walked in, of her own accord.