At about one o'clock we went off again in the car, escorted by a now friendly policeman and one of the searchers. We were armed with a most reassuring pass, signed by the burgomaster himself, but when we arrived at the frontier and confidently handed it to the official there, he shook his head. "Impossible! Impossible!" he said. With a sudden rush our spirits sank to zero. This was the "most unkindest cut of all," but out of the darkness came light. We were at cross-purposes, and the man thought we wished to motor across the little bridge connecting Germany and Holland. We assured him we had no such desire, that I would take a trolley car to Einschede, charter a Dutch automobile to take us to Amsterdam, and return to the frontier to collect the girls and the luggage. Then came the hoped-for permission, and we all jumped out of the car. There was the little bridge--Kleine Brucke--and beyond Holland, the promised land. A few formalities, a few good-bys, a few planks traversed, and we were safe in a country that was neutral for the nonce: Holland, the stepping-stone to America. _S.S. Nieuw Amsterdam A week later_