To kill time I rode back to Billy’s rue. “The car’s on the blink,” said my friend in French. “The connecting rod is lâche and some bearings are burned out. Besides, vous would be a rummy to partir on these tires.” “Comme beaucoup new ones do je need?” “Just plain quatre,” says he. “Well,” says I, “put them on and get busy avec the reparations. I want to start away before dark.” “Ah, oui,” says he, “but we have no tires and we have no tools to make the reparations avec.” “Can’t you get them?” “Vous devoir get them yourself.” “Où?” “At the branch factory of the ----,” and he said the name of the car right out loud. “Où est le branch factory?” “Il est in un suburb--Le Vallois-Perret. The address is 6163 Rue Corneille.” “What tools are required?” “Une roue-tirer et un offset clef à vis.” Which means a wheel puller and an offset wrench. “And can je aussi tires get there?” “Ah, oui.” It was noon, and my trusting driver and I returned to the studio on the Rue de la Paix. The pictures weren’t fini. They never are. “Take me to Maxim’s,” says I, “and we’ll call it a half day.” After lunch I walked back to the studio. The pictures were not fini, but would monsieur rester? Monsieur would. Monsieur rested till fourteen o’clock, got six photophies that had him looking more than ever like a German spy, and taxied back to the Rue François Premier. The préfet’s joint was closed. I asked the driver how far it was out to Le Vallois-Perret. “Come on,” he said, and I climbed in, but “come on,” in French, means “I don’t get you,” so I had to repeat the directions four or five times. “Ah, oui,” he said at last. “Le Vallois-Perret. Quatorze kilomet’s.” “What is that in American money?” “Come on,” said the driver. “Hotel Con-tin-en-tal,” I said. I’ll tackle ’em afresh to-morrow morning. _Wednesday, September 12. Paris._ The préfet’s secretary approved my picture and gave me a beautiful salmon-colored pass. It is good for five days, which is plenty, as I will come back on the train. At the city gates, en route to Le Vallois-Perret, my taxi and I were stopped and our essence measured. If we brought back more than we took out, we would have to pay taxes on the difference. Quatorze kilomet’s was a very conservative estimate of the distance, and it was nearly eleven when we reached Cornelia’s rue and the branch factory. An American heard my plea for four new tires, an offset wrench, and a wheel puller. “It can’t be done,” he said. “All we do is own this place. But the French Government has taken it over and runs it.” “But this is a United States army car,” I said, “and we’re supposed to be allies of the French.” “Without special permission,” said he, “you stand as much chance as if you were the Crown Prince.” “Where can I get special permission?” “Your best bet is to see Captain Vandervelde. If anybody can fix it, he’s the boy. You’ll find him in the Passage de Haynau, Rue Croix Nivert.” “What number?” “There is no number.”