There is nothing on the wharf to eat or drink, and except trunks nothing on which to sit. If you prefer to be haughty and stand, there is no law against that. Should you leave the shed for a stroll, you would gain nothing, for, as it is war-time, at nine o'clock every restaurant and cafe in Havre closes, and the town is so dark you would probably stroll into the harbor. So, like emigrants on our own Ellis Island, English and French army and navy officers, despatch bearers, American ambulance drivers, Red Cross nurses, and all the other picturesque travellers of these interesting times, shiver, yawn, and swear from nine o'clock until midnight. To make it harder, the big steamer that is to carry you across the Channel is drawn up to the wharf not forty feet way, all lights and warmth and cleanliness. At least ten men assured me they would return to Havre and across the street from the examination-shed start an all-night restaurant. After a very few minutes of standing around in the rain it was a plan to get rich quick that would have occurred to almost any one. My number was forty-three. After seeing only five people in one hour pass through the examination-room, I approached a man of proud bearing, told him I was a detective, and that I had detected he was from Scotland Yard. He looked anxiously at his feet. "How did you detect that?" he asked. "Your boots are all right," I assured him. "It's the way you stand with your hands behind your back." By shoving his hands into his pockets he disguised himself, and asked what I wanted. I wanted to be put through the torture-chamber ahead of all the remaining passengers. He asked why he should do that. I showed him the letter that, after weeks of experiment, I found of all my letters, was the one that produced the quickest results. It is addressed vaguely, "To His Majesty's Officers." I call it Exhibit A. I explained that for purposes of getting me out of the goods-shed and on board the steamer he could play he was one of his Majesty's officers. The idea pleased him. He led me into the examination-room, where, behind a long table, like inspectors in a voting-booth on election day, sat French police officials, officers of the admiralty, army, consular, and secret services. Some were in uniform, some in plain clothes. From above, two arc-lights glared down upon them and on the table covered with papers. In two languages they were examining a young Englishwoman who was pale, ill, and obviously frightened. "What is your purpose in going to London?" asked the French official. "To join my children." To the French official it seemed a good answer. As much as to say: "Take the witness," he bowed to his English colleagues. "If your children are in London," demanded one, "what are you doing in France?" "I have been at Amiens, nursing my husband." "Amiens is inside our lines. Who gave you permission to remain inside our lines?" The woman fumbled with some papers. "I have a letter," she stammered.