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.