The old rule upon entering Paris was that if you intended to stay over twenty-four hours you must go to 10 Rue St. Anne, which was the headquarters of the Provost Marshal of the American Military Police, and register, stating your hotel, the nature of your business, when you were leaving, and the time. If you did not intend to stay twenty-four hours or over you did not need to register. Of course, I generally managed to stay twenty-three hours and fifty-nine minutes, at which time I was generally broke and had to leave. But this morning, when I arrived at the Gare de Lyons, I was confronted with a tremendous and complete surprise. Preceding me was a line of about fifty officers, ranging in rank from Colonel to Second Lieutenant, and on down to privates, and in front of them was a big desk and two bigger M. P.’s presided over by an officious looking Second Lieutenant, and above them a sign: “New Regulations, G.H.Q.—No officers or enlisted men under the rank of Brigadier General will be allowed to leave this station or enter Paris without first registering here, giving authority for travel, hotel, nature of business, and when officer or man will leave the city. “By order of General Pershing.” Stunned and shocked, I stood on the side lines and watched. Every one who passed this desk showed written orders and was given a little blue check which the M. P.’s seemed to honor. Things sure looked both black and blue for me. I had no insignia whatever—from appearances I was a private and my uniform was as dirty as a coal scuttle, but at the same time they could tell I was an American. I certainly looked like the last rose of summer after the first winter frost. I figured the small chance I would have of talking my way through that Lieutenant Provost Marshal. Just as sure as could be they would take me up to 10 Rue St. Anne and quarantine me, fumigate me, and hold me for orders. It was the old Army game of waiting for orders, and, believe me, that wasn’t the object of my visit to Paris. I realized that if I once got to my hotel I could spend a couple of days there without even being seen or known and could eat to the limit of my bank account. I felt that under the circumstances General Pershing would bear me out, provided I could get that high up in presenting my case. So I decided to make a reconnaissance of the station, hoping for better luck. I sauntered around, by every exit, and there was either a Frenchman there who wouldn’t let me by or there was an American who, of course, wouldn’t budge. I thought of getting on an outgoing train and being pulled down to the yards and leaving by that way. So I began to walk down the tracks. Finally I found an open gate where the tracks enter for the freight depot.