ders his corporal, "go to her stateroom with her and have a look at her luggage." The corporal is very nice. He finds a blank note book in my trunk. "You aren't supposed to have this," he says. And there is a package of business correspondence. "Did you tell him out there about these letters? Well, you needn't. And I won't." At the suitcase with the magic seals he gives only one glance. To his superior officer, when we return, the corporal reports: "Everything's quite all right. Stuff's stamped all over with the seal of the War Office."
The lieutenant looks at his watch. "I had breakfast at seven. It's now one o'clock. That's lunch time."
"Don't let me detain you," I suggest pleasantly. He shakes his head. "I've got to put this job through."
I am this job. But the lieutenant has smiled. The conversation eases up. "Pretty good suffrage data down at the Houses of Parliament," he himself suggests. "Do you know, I'm almost willing now that women should vote. I didn't used to be. But the war has changed my mind.
"By the way," he asked suddenly, "you're not mixed up with any of those militants, are you?" I explain that I am not a suffragette, just a plain suffragist. "Because I think those militants ought to be shot," he adds. I can only bite my tongue. Has the lieutenant no sense of humour? No militant in Holloway Jail was ever more militant than he is with his sword and pistol at this moment.
