I had to walk all the way up to town because I didn’t have any money to hire a taxi, nor could I even pay my carfare. Finally I got up to the Place de l’Opera, where I went into my American bank and wrote out a check for about two hundred and fifty francs, as I still had a little money on deposit there. As is the custom with those very shrewd and careful French bank clerks, the Frenchman took the check back to consult the books to see if I had that much money on credit. When he came back he looked at me suspiciously over the top rims of his spectacles and said accusingly, “Where did you get that check?” “Well,” I replied, surprised at his attitude, “where do you suppose I got it. I just now wrote it.” “Be careful,” he answered sarcastically, “don’t lie.” “Where do you get that noise?” I demanded, thoroughly insulted. “Well,” he insisted, “we won’t cash that check. That man is dead.” “Who’s dead?” I asked sharply. “Well, you see,” he explained, “our books report that Elmer Haslett was killed in action September 30, 1918.” “Well,” I laughed, appreciating the joke, “I’m the guy—been a prisoner of war and have just gotten back and, as is to be expected, I’ve got to have some money.” “All right,” he answered, as if about to accommodate me, “you prove that you are Elmer Haslett.” “I’ve no papers on me, of course,” and I puzzled for a second. “You see, I’ve been a prisoner of war, but just compare my signature with any previous ones.” That wasn’t sufficient evidence for him, so I asked him to suggest the means of identity. “It is very simple,” he explained. “Get the Military Police at 10 Rue St. Anne to state that you are Elmer Haslett.” Of course, the prospect of appearing at 10 Rue St. Anne was out of the question, for reasons stated. I must try new means to obtain the wherewithal. With new hopes, I walked over to the Hotel Chatham. They had changed clerks there and so when I asked for a room the clerk told me very politely that they had none. I knew then they simply considered me as an undesirable guest on account of my appearance, but I also knew that if I had a chance to get a room in Paris at all on my present appearance it would have to be at the Chatham, where I had previously been known. I told the clerk that I had been at the Chatham many times and that they certainly knew me, that my name was Elmer Haslett. “Oh, yes, yes,” he said politely, “we know you, Mr. Haslett, but we simply have no rooms.” I asked to see the proprietor, but he wasn’t in. Things looked rather bad, when along came the dignified old concierge. Just as big as could be, I walked up and extended my hand to the concierge. “How are you, Henry?” I said, about to embrace him. He drew back in amazement, looking at me like a powerful judge looks at an overfriendly bolshevik. But I had his hand, so he couldn’t get loose. “Well, sir,” he said sternly, “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you before.” I thought of all the woes of poor old Rip Van Winkle—I too had actually changed.