"Your pass!" he said, stretching out his hand, at the same time signaling the chauffeur to stop. The pass was given him, one of us explaining that we had just shown it to a sentry, who had permitted us to enter the town. "Ah, quite so," he murmured. He carefully read the pass, screwing his monocle into his eye. "Ah, _quite_ so. But you will please follow me." He signaled us to get out of the car and directed the chauffeur to turn to the side of the road and to remain there. Then he led the way down a narrow lane. At the door of a small house he told us to wait. He left the door open and we saw him pass down the hall and into a rear room. Then came a burst of laughter. "More '_journalistes Américains_,'" we heard; and then another peal of merriment. We stood about the doorstep and wondered. The Colonel reappeared and again directed us to follow. This time he led the way to a barn a short distance along the road. A cow yard surrounded the barn, enclosed by a high stone wall. At the gate stood a soldier with fixed bayonet. On the gate-post was written a single word. I had been suspecting for several minutes that a hitch had occurred in our plans for going war-corresponding. My companions had similar ideas, but we had kept silent. Now, as we stared at this word written on the wall, I turned to the chap who had spoken so confidently about our pass. "You were right about the pass," I said. "It gets us anywhere." For the word written on the wall was "Prison." The Colonel stopped at the gate of the cow yard, twirled his mustache, and screwed his monocle. He bowed. We bowed. Then we preceded him through the gate. A derisive yell greeted us from a quartet seated on a wooden bench outside the door of the barn. The quartet arose and came towards us laughing. "You know these men?" asked the Colonel. Oh, yes, we knew them. They too were newspaper men, at least three of them. Two represented Italian papers, one an Amsterdam journal. The fourth was an Italian nobleman whose name was frequently in the social columns because of his dinners at the Ritz and Armenonville. He explained that he had accompanied the others as their gentleman chauffeur, driving his own big car. It had been requisitioned for the army at the same moment they themselves were escorted into the cow yard three days before. The Colonel stood by during our greetings, still twirling his mustache. He addressed the quartet. "Since you know these men," he said, indicating us, "you will please explain to them where they will sleep and the arrangements for food." Then he turned to us, at the same time pointing to a corner of the building nearest the wall gate. He said: "You are permitted to remain out of doors as much as you like, but you are not to pass that corner. If you do--well--" a shrug and the monocled smile, "the soldier at the gate will probably shoot." The sage of our party became sarcastic. "I presume that the soldier's gun is loaded," he remarked.