they were not properly married or had been married after the eldest child was born; or had once “been in trouble,” over some peccadillo, or had had a son or a sister who though now upright and prosperous had once been in the clutches of the law.

Now my idea is to turn the tables on all this.  I myself am impeccable in a real court of equity.  My avatar as David Williams was by way of being a superb adventure.  I only retired from the harmless imposture lest I might compromise you, and you are so far gone in politics now that the revelation—­if it came about—­that you were deceived by me and by my “father”—­would do you no harm.  For a number of reasons I know pretty well that the Benchers would not make themselves ridiculous by having the story of my successful entry into their citadel told in open court.  I have in fact, through a devious channel, received the assurance that if I do not resume this character (of D.V.W.) nothing more will be said.  What, then, have I to fear?  My mother s’est bien rangee.  She leads a life of the most respectable.  If they challenge her, she can counter with some of the most piquant scandals of the last thirty years.

My own careful study of criminology and the assiduous searchings of Albert Adams in the same direction; my mother’s anecdotes of the lives of statesmen, police-magistrates, prosecuting counsel, judges, press-editors—­many of whom have enjoyed her hospitality abroad—­have given me numerous hints in what direction to pursue my researches.  Consequently the office of Mr. Michaelis will be the Criminal Investigation Department of the W.S.P.U.  I feel instinctively I am touching pitch and that you will disapprove ... but if we are to fight with clean hands, que Messieurs les Assassins commencent!  If Scotland Yards drops slander and infamous suggestions as a weapon we will let our poisoned arrows rust in the armoury.

How beastly all this is! Why do they drive us to these extremes?  I know already enough to blast the characters of several among our public men.  Yet I know in so doing I should wreck the life-happiness of faithful wives, believing sisters or daughters, or bright-faced children.  Perhaps I won’t, when it comes to the pinch.  But somehow, I think, if they guess I have this knowledge in my possession, they will leave David Williams and Kate Warren alone.

Sometimes, d’you know, I wake up in the middle of the night at the Lilacs or in my reconstituted bedroom at 88-90, and wish I were quit of all this Suffrage business, all this vain struggle against predominant man—­and away with you on a Pacific Island.  Then I realize that we should have large cockroaches and innumerable sand fleas in our new home, that we should have broken Linda’s heart, have set back the Suffrage cause as much as Parnell’s adultery postponed Home Rule; and above all that I am already thirty-five and shall soon be thirty-six