ly suppressed all evidence of his movements.

Is the PRINCE kept prisoner on a trawler sweeping the North Sea for
mines? Has he escaped in the German submarine which ventured up the
Thames as far as the lower end of Fleet Street? Or is he interned in the
searchlight apparatus at Charing Cross to insure it against attack by
Zeppelins?

We seek exact information.

* * * * *

"As regards the quality of this beverage, he said he was at a loss
to know on what grounds they called it coffee."--_Daily Mail._

Coffee grounds, no doubt.

* * * * *

JOURNALISTIC CANDOUR.

"There comes a time when no responsible organ of public opinion can
keep silence without sacrificing the tacit obligation under which it
lies to its readers."--_The Globe._

We are glad to note that in the same article there is a subsequent and
reassuring reference to our contemporary's "well-deserved reputation for
straightforwardness and accuracy."

* * * * *

The author of _Secrets of the German War Office_ writes of the German
FOREIGN MINISTER'S "atrocious taste in waistcoats":--

"The one he had on still sticks in my memory. It was a lurid
peach-blossom creation, spotted with greed."

It is to guard against this that so many of his compatriots tuck their
napkins in at their necks.

* * * * *

AN ESCAPED PRISONER.

It was summertime, years ago, in the early days of the war.

Having distributed myself quite satisfactorily within a hammock, I had
just decided that nothing short of invasion or the luncheon bell should
disturb me, when my flapper niece shot forth in my direction from the
French windows of the morning-room.

In one hand she flourished an empty birdcage and in the other what
proved to be a tin of enormous hemp seeds.

"Wake up!" she cried as she approached rapidly through the near
distance. "The precious Balaam has escaped! The brute must have got out
while I was fetching his clean water, and the windows were _wide_ open!"

The prospect of a canary hunt across country with a temperature at 80
degrees in the shade positively made me shiver.

"Your father is the man to catch it for you, Eileen," I suggested. "He's
most awfully good at catching things. I--er think he's somewhere on the
tennis-court."

"He's not, because he was splashing about in the bathroom just now when
I