His guard was down, and I took careful aim: “Do you think the Defense League used good judgment in entrusting that secret to you, when you spill it to the first irresponsible reporter you happen to run across?” If I hadn’t won this argument, I wouldn’t repeat it. Not until we reached our château did I realize why I had been so catty. I’d gone without my tea. _Sunday, September 9. Paris._ Mr. Gibbons and I this morning bade good-by to our genial hosts and were driven to the station at which we arrived last Wednesday. On the Paris-bound train I wondered audibly why the servants had given me that queer look before we left. “Did you tip them?” asked Mr. Gibbons. “Certainly!” I snapped. “I’ll bet I know,” said Mr. Gibbons. “You probably packed your own suit-case.” He was right. VI HOW I DIDN’T DRIVE MAJOR BLANK’S CAR TO CAMP SUCH-AND-SUCH _Monday, September 10. Paris._ The American major who owns the car which Mr. Kiley drove down from Le Havre, whither it had been sent by the man who bought it in London for the American major--well, anyway, this American major, he’s in the artillery camp at Such-and-Such, and he wants me to bring it down there for him. I’ve never handled, or, rather, footled one of the little birds, but it’s something everybody should learn, like French and auction and how to swim. Besides, I want to see the artillery camp. So I’m accepting the commission and intend to get busy to-morrow morning. _Tuesday, September 11. Paris._ With an American pass and an order for the car, I taxied to the United States army garage, in the Quai Debilly. “Avez-vous fixed vous with passes?” inquired a friendly inmate of the garage. I showed him my American card. “That isn’t bien suffisant,” he said. “You’ll have to get a pink one to go through the French army zone.” I recalled then our troubles on a previous automobile trip and was glad he had spoken. “Where do I go for that?” I inquired. “Go,” said he, “to the Préfet de Ligne du Communications.” Or something like that. “Où is il?” “I think he’s in the Rue François Premier.” “And is the car all right?” “I guess so. Nos haven’t looked at it yet.” I had let my taxi go, and twenty minutes were spent in getting another. It was another hour before we located the préfet. A secretary examined my passport and American pass and took my dossier: Name, nationality, birthplace, age, ancestry, real purpose in coming to France. Hair--black; forehead--high; eyes--brown; nose--prominent; mouth--medium; chin--round; complexion--dark; height--six one and three-quarters. Sign here. “Now,” said the sec., “monsieur will avez to come across avec a photophie.” “I’m just out,” I said. “I’d no idea I’d be so popular.” “Nos can issue no passes sans a photophie,” says he, so out I went in search of a rapid-fire studio. The driver pulled up in front of a gallery on the Rue de la Paix, where the artist promised to have six copies of my map printed by midi.