The third day we were told to get ready for exercise, and were taken under escort to a back yard of the Castle where we wandered wearily up and down, while female servants looked down on us disdainfully from upper stories. In the middle of our wanderings somebody arrived with a chair, and a sprightly young man, waving a diminutive camera on very long legs, so that it looked like some breed of spider, invited us to take the chair in turn and be photographed. At the same time another gentleman with a waxed moustache and a very penetrating eye jotted down his personal reflections upon our looks. This was for the Castle archives. Tears came into the eyes of poor old O’Grady when he had to suffer the indignity of the chair; but I disguised myself behind a three days’ growth of beard and remained unashamed. After the photography we were headed back to our cell, to staleness, to boredom and to dreary contemplation. The end of my adventure came as suddenly as the beginning. We were exercising next day. A sergeant of Military Police tapped me on the shoulder and said, “This way.” I started at his side and we crossed the Upper Castle Yard, and then the Lower Castle Yard, and finally we came to the main gate. He gave a flourish of his hand and said, “There you are. You are free.” Not to be outdone, I also waved my hand. “I’m to walk out there?” “You’re free.” “What about the other fellow, the old man?” “I don’t know anything about him. He’ll be out in a few minutes.” “But I’ve not got my gear. I must go back and get it.” He looked scandalised. “You can’t. You’re free. You can’t be in the Castle without a permit. You must go. You have no right here. You must go. The other fellow will bring your bag.” “I didn’t want to come, and you brought me here. Now you want me to go, and I don’t want to go--without the old man and my gear.” “You are free, and you can’t be in the Castle without a permit.” He was shocked to the root of his being. I departed. CHAPTER XXII LOST: A HUSBAND We stood shivering on the steps, and watched Himself and O’Grady climb into one of the lorries. Himself was wrapped up well enough; but I had a pang at the sight of O’Grady, who was elderly and had on a threadbare overcoat and scarf. Mrs. Slaney denounced the British Government until the last sounds of the wheels had died away. I listened dazed. A plait of Mrs. O’Grady’s hair hung down her back. The spell was broken by Mrs. Slaney retreating upstairs; but with a bound Mrs. O’Grady outstripped her, and towered above her with her hands raised over her head. “God forgive you for a wicked old woman! God forgive you, for I never will. You’re a wicked, wicked woman, Mrs. Slaney. Do you hear me?” “Hush, Mrs. O’Grady!” Mrs. Fitzgerald urged. “Hush. You’ll say something you’ll be sorry for later. Mrs. O’Grady, be quiet.”