I feel now that a sufficient period has passed for the publication in more detail of some of the memorable interviews that took place in the private room of the Embassy. At the time some of them were printed in the form of short cable-grams, but more often lost in the rush of events. I shall never forget a talk that took place just two days before the declaration of war. Mr. Herrick was sitting at his big, flat-topped desk smoking a cigarette and looking out of the open window. He waved his hand toward the cigarette box as he greeted me and pointed at a chair. He continued looking out of the window, but I knew that he saw nothing. There were no preliminaries; only one subject interested every mind in Paris. "What do you know?" I asked. "It's bad," he replied. "Any fresh developments?" "None you don't already know--but come again to-night and I'll tell you anything I learn." "What will you do with the Americans--the town is full of them? What about them if it comes?" I next asked. We always referred to the war as just "it." "Take care of 'em," he announced briefly--then a pause; and he laughed. "Don't know yet that they'll need it--let's hope it won't come." "But you expect it?" He looked me directly in the face as he slowly answered: "Yes--it's only a question of days--or hours." We both drew long breaths. "And--" I began; but he went on talking slowly and heavily. "It's what the Orient has waited for--waited for all these centuries--the breaking down of Occidental civilization--" He drew himself up with a jerk. "But that's too much like pessimism. Have a cigarette. I've got to keep smiling, you know. That's part of an ambassador's job." And he did keep smiling. There were few moments during all those days when there was not a smile upon his face and an honest welcome in his manner. But once I saw him angry. He was furiously angry at certain information I had brought to the Embassy. It was the first day after the military order that all foreigners residing in Paris should register at their local police commissariats within twenty-four hours. The city was no longer a city officially. It was an intrenched camp. Only military law prevailed. The penalty for not obeying orders was severe, and for the thousands of Americans to obey the order in question was manifestly impossible. I myself had no police permit--not even a passport. I had no time to go near a police station. My wife telephoned that at our commissariat the line of waiting foreigners was about eight hundred. She flatly declined to take her turn--permit or no permit. I suggested that she go home; but later I heard disquieting rumors, that there had been several arrests of foreigners unable to show a _permis de séjour_. I did not blame the police, for the city was full of spies; but I could see no good reason why the Americans should suffer and I went full speed to the Embassy to put the facts before the Ambassador.