f you, Rad?" I enquired.

"Over on Bond Street," he said, "he insisted on my going to the police
station with him. "All right," I said, "jump in," and he did so. I
knew where the police station was in a street off Oxford Street, but
when we got to the street I passed it. The officer called out, but I
didn't hear him. At the next corner he yelled again, but I got in
front of a convenient bus."

"Why didn't you turn there," he said.

"Then you would have had a real charge against me," I said, "for
breaking the rules of traffic."

Finally he asked "Are you going to turn or not?" and I said "I guess
we will turn here" and turned around, stopping in front of the
Marguereta Restaurant.

"What are you stopping for?" he asked.

"The officers who are in charge of the car are in there at their
dinner," I said, "you had better speak to them." Gee, he was mad."

All the rest of the afternoon I chuckled with delight at the picture
of the anger of that cub six foot two policeman as he was being
whirled along Oxford Street against his will, to a restaurant he did
not want to go to, to meet people he didn't want to see.

CHAPTER V.

THE LOST CANADIAN LABORATORY.

At the War Office in London, in the autumn of 1914, I met Captain
Sydney Rowland of the staff of the Lister Institute. He was a man who
had made a reputation in the scientific world and had just been
authorized by the British War Office to purchase a huge motor caravan
to be equipped as a mobile laboratory. The caravan had been built
originally by a wealthy automobile manufacturer at a cost of 5,000
pounds, and had been completely equipped for living in while touring
the country. It even had a little kitchen, and the whole affair was
lined with aluminium. Tiring of it, the builder had sold it to a
bookmaker who used it for less legitimate purposes.

Captain Rowland had heard of this machine and finally located and
purchased it. All the expensive interior was torn out and replaced
with work benches and sinks, while shelves and racks were provided for
glassware and apparatus. It was a beautifully equipped, compact
machine, and he was justly proud of it.

When he took it over to France he drove it up to the army area
himself, and told me that as he approached the front through villages
and towns at the rate of twenty-five miles an hour he had an
absolutely unimpeded road. After one look at this huge affair, which
was about the size of one of our large movi