"No. There is no Jewish blood in our family." I thought of Dad's
Quakerism and smiled. I wondered what he would have said if he had been
there.

"Then why have you such sympathy for them?" He looked at me narrowly, as
though he had me _there_.

"Because they are suffering."

"Tck." He clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth in the most
skeptical fashion.

He took up my letter, translated into Russian, and went through it. The
whole thing was a farce. I answered the questions he asked me, but they
didn't get us anywhere. Of course, everything I knew about the Jewish
detention camp I had written in my letter. All I could do was to repeat
what I had said there. And when he asked questions like, "Who said five
old men had been killed along the way?" or, "How did you know throwing
the bodies into the Dnieper had brought cholera into Kiev this summer?"
I could only reply, "I was told it." "Who told you?" "I forget."

When he got up to go he said:--

"This letter makes your case a very serious one. Of course, we can't
have such things as that published about us. Have you ever written
before?"

I said, "No."

"You aren't reporting for any journal?"

I assured him it was only a letter I had written my mother and father.

"It goes out of my hands to-night. I shall hand it with a report to the
Chief of the General Staff."

"When shall I hear from them?"

"They will let you know as soon as possible. It's unfortunate you should
have written it. Otherwise, I could have settled the matter myself. As
it is, it is a matter for the military authorities. Of course, such a
letter written in the war zone, at a time like this--" He stopped
himself. "Good-night. Good-night." He clicked his heels and bowed
himself out of the room.

"Ouf!" we all said.

"Mrs. Pierce, promise me you won't put your pen to paper again while you
are in Russia," the English Consul said, smiling.

"But isn't it ridiculous--absurd--disgusting!" I said.

"People are sent to Siberia for less," the Consul said. "But don't be
frightened, Mrs. Pierce. It will come out all right."

"Of course. But when?"

"_Seichas_," he replied, smiling.

"_Seichas._" How I hate the expression. "Peter, you'd better cable for
some more money. Heaven knows when we'll get out now," I said.

Peter sends love too. We are hungry for news from you, and we picture
greedily the piles of letters we shall find waiting for us in Bulgaria.
I try not to be anxious