s dragging fellow-creatures from the
Pit. The God of Dawson and of his Emma is a pitiless giant with a
pitchfork, busily thrusting his creatures towards eternal torment;
Dawson, in Emma's eyes, is an intrepid salvor with a boat-hook who
once a week arduously pulls them out. Dawson married Emma when he was
a sergeant of Marines, and I think that he has shown to her his
uniform with the three captain's stars. To me she always spoke of him
as "the Captain," though I could not be quite sure whether she meant a
Captain of Marines or a Captain in the Army of Salvation. Dawson, his
Emma, and Clara are very happy, very united, and I am glad that I saw
them in their own home. I am helped to understand how tender is the
heart which beats under Dawson's assumed cloak of professional
ruthlessness. At first I wholly misjudged him, but I will not now
alter what I then wrote. My readers will learn to know their Dawson as
I learned myself.

Whenever in the future I wish to hear from Dawson of his exploits I
shall not seek him at his own house. He is an artist who is highly
sensitive to atmosphere. In Acacia Villas the police officer fades to
shadowy insignificance, even in his own mind. Then, he is a husband, a
father, and a mighty preacher. He will talk of his disguises, and in
general terms of his work, but there is no fiery enthusiasm for
manhunting when Dawson gets home to Tooting. I shall seek him at the
Yard, or upon the hot trail; then and then only shall I get from him
the full flavour of his genius for detection. Dawson, away from home,
is so vain as to be unconscious of his vanity; Dawson at home is quite
extraordinarily modest. He defers always to the opinion of Emma, and
she, gently, kindly, but with an air of infinite superiority, keeps
his wandering steps firmly in the path of truth. He is, I am told, a
most kindling preacher, but it is Emma who inspires his sermons.

Once only during my visit did I see a flash of the old Dawson, the
Dawson of the _Malplaquet_, and of the War Committee, and that was
just before I left. We were in the parlour smoking, and I was getting
rather bored. Conjugal virtue, domestic content and happiness, are
beautiful to look upon for a while, but I confess that in a
remorseless continuous film ("featuring" Dawson and Emma) I find them
boresome. There is little humour about Dawson and none at all about
his dear Emma. I would gladly exchange fifty virtuous Emmas for one
naughty Madame Gilbert. W