Only, of course, the suffragette does her best to get into prison. She doesn't mind. It's a glory to her. She comes out and "swanks" about in a peculiarly hideous brooch that's been specially designed to show that she's been sentenced to "one month," or whatever it was.
She's proud of it. Oh, how can she be? Proud of having spent so much time in a revolting place like this! "I think," gazing round hopelessly once more—"oh, I don't believe I shall ever be able to get the disgusting, bleak, sordid look of it out of my mind, or the equally sordid, bleak, disgusting smell of it out of my skirts and my hair!"
And I clasp my hands in my lap and close my eyes to shut out the look of those awful walls and that fearful door.
I go over again the scene yesterday down at the "Refuge," when we were arrested by that Scotland Yard man, and when I had just enough presence of mind to ask him to allow us, before we went off with him, to leave word with our friends.
A group of our friends were already gathered on the gravel path outside the house under the lilacs. And there came running out at my call Miss Vi Vassity, half a dozen of her Refugette girls, Miss Million's American cousin, and—though I thought he must have taken his departure!—the disgraced Mr. Burke.
In the kind of nightmare of explanations that ensued I remember most clearly the high-pitched laugh of "London's Love" as she exclaimed, "Charging them, are you, officer? I suppose that means I've got to come round and bail them out in the morning, eh? Not the first time that Vi has had that to do for a pal of hers? But, mind you, it's about the first time that there's been all this smoke without any fire. Pinching rubies? Go on. Go on home! Who says it? Rubies! Who's got it?" she rattled on, while everybody stared at us.
The group looked like a big poster for some melodrama on at the Lyceum, with three central figures and every other person in the play gaping in the background.
"Oh, of course it's Miss Smith that collared Rats's old ruby," went on Miss Vi Vassity encouragingly. "Sort of thing she would do. Brought it down here to the other little gal, my friend, Miss Nellie Million, I presume? And what am I cast for in this grand finale? Receiver of stolen goods, eh? Bring out some more glasses, Emmie, will you?"—this to the Acrobat Lady.
"What's yours, Sherlock Holmes?" to the detective. Then to Miss Million, who was deathly pale and trembling: "A little drop of something short will do you no harm, my girl. You shall have the car to 'go quietly' in, in a minute or two——"
Here the American accent of Mr. Hiram P. Jessop broke in emphatically.