The lieutenant has been questioning me for half-an-hour. “I’m sorry,” he says, “but I think I shall have to have you searched. This suitcase of journalistic data, you say that there is inside each package a note stating that the material has been passed by the Government? Why isn’t that note on the outside of the package?” “I don’t know,” I answer earnestly. “It’s the question I asked in vain at Strand House. The censor said that it had to be this way. I assure you the note is there. But if you break the outside seal to find out, my government guarantee is gone. And if this boat by any chance goes to Halifax, how are they to know there that I’m not a German spy?” The lieutenant’s eyes are on my face. I think he believes I am telling the truth. “Well,” he orders 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. “There’s a question I’d like to ask,” he goes on. “In your country where women have the franchise, do you find that they all vote alike?” “No more than all the men,” I answer. “Then that’s all right,” he says in a relieved tone. “I’ve been afraid that if we let women vote, they might all vote against war.” SHALL WE GO DOWN OR ACROSS? “You really aren’t a militant, are you?” he says again, thoughtfully. “Well, I’ll let you go.” So that’s my last steel line.