y, all lights and warmth and
cleanliness. At least ten men assured me they would return to Havre
and across the street from the examination-shed start an all-night
restaurant. After a very few minutes of standing around in the rain it
was a plan to get rich quick that would have occurred to almost any one.

My number was forty-three. After seeing only five people in one hour
pass through the examination-room, I approached a man of proud bearing,
told him I was a detective, and that I had detected he was from Scotland
Yard. He looked anxiously at his feet.

"How did you detect that?" he asked.

"Your boots are all right," I assured him. "It's the way you stand with
your hands behind your back."

By shoving his hands into his pockets he disguised himself, and asked
what I wanted. I wanted to be put through the torture-chamber ahead of
all the remaining passengers. He asked why he should do that. I showed
him the letter that, after weeks of experiment, I found of all my
letters, was the one that produced the quickest results. It is addressed
vaguely, "To His Majesty's Officers." I call it Exhibit A.

I explained that for purposes of getting me out of the goods-shed and on
board the steamer he could play he was one of his Majesty's officers.
The idea pleased him. He led me into the examination-room, where, behind
a long table, like inspectors in a voting-booth on election day, sat
French police officials, officers of the admiralty, army, consular, and
secret services. Some were in uniform, some in plain clothes. From
above, two arc-lights glared down upon them and on the table covered
with papers.

In two languages they were examining a young Englishwoman who was pale,
ill, and obviously frightened.

"What is your purpose in going to London?" asked the French official.

"To join my children."

To the French official it seemed a good answer. As much as to say: "Take
the witness," he bowed to his English colleagues.

"If your children are in London," demanded one, "what are you doing in
France?"

"I have been at Amiens, nursing my husband."

"Amiens is inside our lines. Who gave you permission to remain inside
our lines?"

The woman fumbled with some papers.

"I have a letter," she stammered.

The officer scowled at the letter. Out of the corner of his mouth he
said: "Permit from the 'W. O.' Husband, Captain in the Berkshires.
Wounded at La Bassee."

He was already scratching his vise upon her passport. A