Monsieur le Préfet has his office conveniently located about eight miles away from the Control, over the river. And he’s on the fourth floor of a building constructed before the invention of the elevator. From behind an untrimmed hedge of black whiskers he questioned me as to my forebears, musical tastes and baseball preferences. Then he retired into chambers and presently issued forth with my passport, on which his stamp had been added to the beautiful collection already there. It says I’m Bon for a trip to Amérique par Angleterre, so I don’t know whether I’m to go that way or through Grande Bretagne. Thence back to Rue Napoléon Lajoie, and another long wait. “Yes,” said the officer when my turn came again, “the visé is all right, but where is your steamship ticket? You’ll have to show that before we can pass you.” In order to show it I had to go and buy it, and in order to buy it I had to scare up some money, which is no mere child’s play in Gay Paree these days. I called on four people before I found one who was touchable. With what he grudgingly forked over I hastened to the booking office and felt at home there, it being on Rue Scribe. There was a customer ahead of me--our president’s youngest son-in-law. “Do you know who that was?” said the agent excitedly when the young man had departed. “Yes,” I replied, “but we don’t speak to each other.” “Now,” said the agent, “I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you a few questions. It’s annoying, I know, but it’s the war-time rule.” “Shoot,” I told him. “I’m thoroughly used to being annoyed.” He ran through the familiar list and saved a new one for the wind-up. “Why are you going to America?” I could have spent an entire week replying to that, but even minutes were precious. “Because it’s where I live,” proved satisfactory. He apologized again for having to propound the queries, which shows he must be new on the job. The rest of them don’t care whether you like it or not. I signed six or seven pledges, gave over the bulk of my borrowed fortune, and set out again with my ticket for the Rue Jacques Johnson. I got there just in time, for they close early on Saturday. Other days the poor devils have to work right through from ten to four. The officer also wanted to know why I was going to America. And he asked me at what hotel I would stop in London. I told him I’d never been there and knew nothing about the hotels. “You must make a choice,” he said. “We have to know your address.” “Is there one called the Savoy?” “Yes.” “Well, let’s say the Savoy.” “All right. You’re to stay there, then, while you’re in London, and you’re to leave England on this ship Wednesday night. Otherwise you may have trouble.” I’ll be surprised if I don’t anyhow.