The corridors were almost incessantly patrolled at night. The necessity of trying to dodge the patrol would be not only disturbing but somewhat difficult. Next the stairs, on each landing, was a room used for various purposes. These rooms were not patrolled. The one on the first floor which was naturally the most attractive to us was labeled “CLERK.” This too had the same lock as the cell doors. In there we should be quite undisturbed while attending strictly to duty. We made a key out of a piece of thick wire and the tin lid of a priceless beer-glass. The lid was beautifully and appropriately engraved. So was the glass, which had a considerable sentimental value. Wallace, the rightful owner, sacrificed the lid on the altar of the common weal. With the wire as a core we cast the key in a plaster-of-Paris mold and filed it to fit. C. filed it. He would not let anybody else touch it. He now holds it as his most treasured souvenir of the war. It was not at all difficult to obtain the plaster of Paris for the mold. The making of the key was an extremely simple affair altogether, though it sounds extremely romantic. The opening of the cell door was an outside job, for the lock was quite inaccessible from the inside with any of the instruments we possessed. One of us had to get himself locked out by mistake, hide somewhere in the prison, and release the others at the proper time. Wallace volunteered to do this. He got the job. On the top floor of the building, in a sort of blind corner, was the prison library. It was separated from the rest of the corridor by a wood-and-glass partition. Above its door was an opening large enough to offer an easy passage for Wallace’s small but athletic frame. As the library would hardly be used after lock-up, Wallace would be more than reasonably safe there during his vigil. We intended to walk from Berlin to the Baltic Sea and make the passage to the nearest Danish island in any kind of craft we could dishonestly come by. * * * * * “All there?” asked the N.C.O. in charge of our corridor at seven o’clock of the evening fixed for the new venture. C. and I were sitting opposite each other at chess. L. was bending with knitted brows over another chess board. The stool opposite him was empty. “Yes,” I answered absently, without lifting my eyes from the board. “Where’s Ellison?” using Wallace’s surname. I looked up and made a motion toward the privy our cell boasted. “All right. _Gute Nacht._” “Good night, Herr Unterofficier!” The door swung closed and the bolt shot home. L. continued playing chess with himself, still with that concentrated look of his. C. was mean enough to take an unfair advantage of my inattention and declared “mate” after ten or twelve more moves.