stable contented himself with marching on her feet
with all his weight and thrusting his elbows violently into her
breast.

She well-nigh fainted with the pain; in fact would have fallen in
the crowd but for the interposition of Adams who carried her out of
it to the corner of Parliament Street, where he pounced on one of
the many taxis that crawled about the outskirts of the shouting,
swaying crowd, sure of a fare from either police or escaping
Suffragists. Feeling certain that some policeman had not left the
disguised Vivie entirely unobserved--indeed Bertie had half thought
he caught the words above the din: "That's David Williams, that is,"
he told the taxi man to drive along the Embankment to the Temple. By
the time they had reached the nearest access on that side of
Fountain Court, Vivie was sufficiently recovered from her semi-swoon
to get out, and leaning heavily on Bertie's arm, limp slowly through
the intricacies of the Temple and out into Fleet Street by
Sergeant's Inn. Then with fresh efforts and further halts they made
their way to 94, Chancery Lane.

Some one was sitting up here with one electric light on, ready for
any development connected with W.S.P.U. work that night. To
her--fortunately it was a woman--Bertie handed over his stricken
chief, and then made his way home to his little house in Marylebone
and a questioning and not too satisfied wife. The Suffragette in
charge of the top storey at 94 knew something, fortunately, of first
aid, was deft of hands and full of sympathy. Vivie's--or Mr.
Michaelis's--lace-up boots were carefully removed and the poor
crushed and bleeding toes washed with warm water. The collar was
taken off and the shirt unbuttoned revealing a terrible bruise on
the sternum where the policeman's elbow had struck her--better
however there, though it had nearly broken the breastbone, than on
either side, as such a blow might have given rise to cancer. As it
was, Vivie when she coughed spat blood.

A cup of hot bovril and an hour's rest on a long chair and she was
ready, supremely anxious indeed, to try the last adventure: an
excursion across the roofs and up and down fire-escapes on to the
parapet of her own especial dwelling, the old offices of Fraser and
Warren at No. 88-90. The great window of the partners' room opened
to her manipulations--it had been carefully left unbolted before
her departure for Caxton Hall; and aided cautiously and cleverly by
her suffragette helper, Vi