who had no business on that landing at all, but she usually made assignations there with the lift man.  And on the writing table in the outer office they found a note addressed to Miss Annie Kenney, which said inside:  “Dear Annie.  If you should chance to look in between your many imprisonments and find me out, you will know I am away on the Firm’s business, livening up the racing establishments of the Right Honble Sir ——­ ——­, Bart.  Bart.  No one knows anything about this at No. 94.”

(This note was purely unnecessary—­a bit of swagger perhaps, lest Miss Kenney should think Vivie never did anything dangerous, but only planned dangerous escapades for others.  Like the long letter of Vivie to Michael Rossiter, written on the last day of December, 1910, which he had imperfectly destroyed, it was a reminder of that all-too-true saying:  “Litera scripta manet.”)

If the outer door of Michaelis’s office was locked how could Miss Kenney be expected to call and find this note awaiting her?  Why, here came in the “No. 94” of the scrap of paper.  There was an over-the-roofs communication between the block of 88-90 and House No. 94.  The policemen in fact found that the large casement of the partners’ room was only pulled to, so that it was easily opened from the outside.  From the parapet they passed to the fire-escapes and through the labyrinth of chimney stacks to a similar window leading into the top storey of 94, the office of Mr. Algernon Mainwaring, Hygienic Corset-maker.  This office at the time of their unexpected entry was fairly full of Suffragettes planning all sorts of direful things.  So the plain-clothes policemen had a rare haul that day and certainly had Mrs. Rossiter to thank for rising to be Inspectors and receiving some modest Order of later days.  It was about the worst blow the W.S.P.U. had; before the outbreak of War turned suddenly the revolting women into the stanchest patriots and the right hands of muddling ministers.  For in addition to many a rich find in No. 94 and a dozen captives caught red-handed in making mock of the Authorities, the plain-clothes policemen made themselves thoroughly at home in Mr. Michaelis’s quarters till the following Monday.  And when in the fore-noon of that day, Mr. Michaelis entered his rooms, puzzled and perturbed at finding the outer door ajar, he was promptly arrested on a multiform charge of arson ... and on being conveyed to a police station and searched he was found to be Miss Vivien Warren.

At intervals in the summer and early autumn of 1913 the male section of the public had been horrified and scandalized at the destruction going on in racing establishments, particularly those of Sir George Crofts and of a well-known South American millionaire, whose distinguished services to British commerce and immense donations to Hospitals and Homes would probably be rewarded by a grateful government.  If these outrages were not stopped, horse-racing and race-horse breeding must come to a stand-still; and we leave our readers to realize what that would mean!  There would be no horses for the plough or the gig, or the artillery gun-carriage; no—­er—­fox-hunting, and without fox-hunting and steeple-chasing and point-to-point races you could have no cavalry and without cavalry you could have no army.  If we neglected blood stock we would deal the farmer a deadly blow, we should—­er—­