“I told him Paris had been my headquarters and I’d made frequent trips in and out.” “How did you get to Belgium?” “In an automobile.” “An automobile!” “Yes, sir.” “What were you doing?” “I was being the guest of your army.” A great light dawned upon them. “Oh!” said one, smiling. “He means he was behind our lines, not theirs.” “I should hope so,” said I. “We’re sorry to have misunderstood, sir,” said the other, and I was escorted into the baggage-room. There my sordid belongings were perfunctorily examined, the official not even troubling to open my typewriter case nor a large ungainly package containing a toy for certain parties back home. It was eleven o’clock when the examinations were all over and we entrained for this town. I got off at Waterloo and asked a taxi to take me to the Savoy. It did and it drove on the left side of all the streets en route. I’m still quaking. _Tuesday, September 18. London._ This morning I had my first experience with an English telephone. I asked the hotel’s operator to get me the office of Mr. O’Flaherty, the American correspondent I had met at the British front. In a few moments she rang back. “Are you there?” she said, that being London for “Hello.” “Here’s your number, then. Carry on,” she said. But carrying on was not so easy. There is a steel spring on the combination transmitter-receiver which you must hold down while you talk. I kept forgetting it. Also I kept being electrically shocked. But in the course of half an hour, with the operator’s assistance, I managed to convey to the gentleman an invitation to call. He came, and we started for the Bow Street police station, where every visitor has to register within twenty-four hours of his arrival. On the way we met Lew Payne, the actor, and Gene Corri, racing man and box-fight referee. Gene has friends among the bobbies, and I was put through in record time. They told me I’d have to go to the American consul for a visé and then come back for a second registration with the police. Mr. O’Flaherty opined that these jobs should be attended to at once, as my boat train was supposed to leave at nine to-morrow morning. Mr. Payne had a better idea. “Let’s telephone the steamship office,” he said, “and find out whether your ship is really going to sail on schedule. They usually don’t these days.” Mr. O’Flaherty did the telephoning, and, sure enough, the blamed thing’s been postponed till Saturday night. They asked me what I wanted to do next, and I said I’d like to pay my respects to George and Mary. But I hadn’t let them know I was coming and they’re both out of town. We went to Murray’s (pronounced Mowrey’s) Club for lunch, though no one in the party was a member and you have to sign checks to get anything. Unlike most clubs, however, you pay cash simultaneously with signing the check, so we weren’t cheating. I signed “Charles Chaplin” to one check and it went unchallenged.