This was the first time I had been out, so naturally I felt queer and weak. Nor was I pleased with my companion. He had a fat, self-satisfied face; in fact, was not at all the handsome, keen-looking detective you see on the cover of a dime novel. Besides, he was _too_ polite. He thought, I suppose, that this would be the best way to get me to answer the hundred and one questions he began to ask me. I told him I might answer questions about myself, but I certainly should not answer any concerning the countess or my other friends. This response kept him quiet for a block or two. Then he turned suddenly and asked me about two girls from Glasgow who had come to Ireland at the same time that I did. I just walked along as though I had not heard a word, and so we proceeded in silence the rest of the way. When we entered the vestibule of the prison, an old official immediately began to catechize me. I refused to answer a single one of his questions, not even as to my name. Instead I pointed to the "G-man." "Ask him," I said. "He knows all about me, and can tell you if he wants to." The detective's face grew red, but he did answer the old man's questions. It was very interesting to me to find that he knew who my parents were; that I had been born twelve miles from Glasgow; that I had gone to different schools which he named, and that I had attended the training college for teachers. He told just where I had been teaching, and how well known I was as a militant suffragette. But what he did _not_ say was even more interesting. He never declared that I had been a combatant in the rising. I wondered inwardly if he thought I had been only a despatch-rider or a first-aid girl. I was exceedingly glad I had let him answer for me as, taking it for granted they knew all about me, I might have given myself away. The old man finally called the matron and told her to treat me well, as I was not a "drunk or disorderly" person, to which class this prison is given over, but a military prisoner. Indeed she did treat me well. Since there was nothing on which to sit down, she kindly opened a cell and let me sit on the wooden plank they call a bed, and stare at the wooden head-board. I did not look forward much to such accommodations, with my wounds still painful. She talked to me, too, very sympathetically. Sometimes it was hard for us to hear each other, as there were many drunken men singing and cursing. Being drunk, they were able to forget that Ireland was under martial law, and cursed the British loudly or sang disrespectful songs. The detective had gone out, and those in the jail seemed waiting to hear from him before they picked out my permanent cell. After about two hours, he came back. From where I sat, I could see him bend over the old man and whisper to him. Then he walked over to me. "Come," he said, "we'll go now." "Go where?" I asked. "To the hospital," he replied, "or anywhere else you wish. You are free."